Post by kadenkeene on Nov 18, 2006 17:57:37 GMT -5
The hoofbeats clapped dirt clouds behind them on the path, and did not slow until they saw their mark. Ahead, just beyond the crippled signpost. From the backs of their steeds, the knights hoisted the visors from their helms and surveyed the land. It was as they expected; the beast had been full-bellied and comfortable. In this comfort, the beast had grown confident.
Now was the time to strike.
The knights unsheathed their steel, and reared their horses, letting their whinnies cry out into the poisoned air. As they charged, the beast kept its back to them, not ready yet to relinquish its hard-won feast. The horses drew closer yet, and the lead knight shouted his battle cry. Only then did the beast turn to face his challengers.
Running from its mouth like so much water from a bucket, the lifeblood of another. It wore this ugliness like a crimson mask. Yellow teeth lined in rows between its lips, wet with spit and blood, and the beast with two legs hissed. It turned away from the charge, holding something in its arms.
Joseph ran at the flank, and was the first to see it. A normal man might have halted his steed, or perhaps fallen ill at the sight, but not a knight under the banner of King Edward. Joseph heaved the end of his blade at the beast, carving a vicious slash across its chest.
Cradled in its left arm, the bloodied remnants of an infant, still in its blanket. The child was only recognizable in its size and dressing--the rest had been turned to red and black and chewed masses of pink flesh. Mathew held the lead steed, and hacked with his thick blade at the beast, taking the arm holding the child. Arm and child fell to the dirt, but the beast still stood.
Its screams sounded like waking nightmares. It spun in place, blood spewing from the gaping wounds just beyond the shoulder, and across its chest. William and John came in together, one thrusting his sword into the belly of the beast; the other swiping the beast's head off while calling out his due to his King.
The knights slowed their charge and stopped just yards behind the scene. Mathew flipped his visor and looked upon their mark: "Dead beyond dead," he said.
Joseph dismounted quickly, running to the side of the beast, and lunging one last time into its back. It jerked, then flailed, and then died. He stood with his visor raised, and showed his broad smile to his mates. He whispered in its ear: England sends her regard, demon!
"Now it is!"
They met him with laughter, and dismounted themselves. They huddled around the signpost, and looked long at the town. The Great Mortality had taken many, and this place was as devastated as any. Its neighbor, Norfolk, had not lost quite as much, but even from their ground outside the town's border they could see the dead piled in the street, and knew Norfolk would feel this wrath soon enough.
Mathew removed his helm, and smelled the air. "There is much death here."
Joseph did the same, while John and William followed.
"'Tis a shame, but the beasts herd here," Joseph said with another grin, clapping Mathew's black armored back. "Plenty of killing to be done yet!"
They mounted their steeds again, these secret Knights of Edward III, and rode into town.
******
Francis Lucia gazed upon the structure with silent awe. People filtered in in their Sunday Best, the smiles and laughter they shared while on the sidewalk disappearing abruptly as they entered the church. Francis had always found this to be such an inspiring display of power; the man they showed reverence to was not in a white collar or carrying a bible...rather, he was the man hung on the cross that adorned the wall behind the altar. His only presence in this place was in the form of that cross, or on the grand stained window, or in one of the dozen paintings that hung on three of the walls.
Francis dreamed of power, but knew his would never be as great as His. No matter his deeds, how many Houses he Fathered, no matter how many he raised to be great leaders of his kind...no one would ever drop their smiles or hush their laughter when they came to his house.
His power did grow, however. The last Son of his Seventh House was now learning the ways of their kind, and had taken a life not out of thirst, but out of rage. It wasn't quite the normal means of First Blood*, but Francis mused that it might even be better. And while his new Son was still getting his legs, so to speak, he was already showing so much promise.
Kaden had nearly beaten the promotion's champion, Lantlas, if not for his own ego and youth getting in his way. He had let his anger with his former partner, James Keenan, prevent him from winning the War Games match, but it seemed that Kaden was learning from those mistakes. Though Keenan had ended Kaden's match with Mentis before its time, one thing had become quite clear to Francis as the match played out...
Mentis could not beat him.
This great champion, eclipsed perhaps only by Lantlas in severity of reign and domination of competition, Non Compos Mentis threw every weapon he held in his possession at Kaden to no avail. The frustration on his face was as beautiful as any inside the holy place Francis stood before now.
Before his young Son now was Nina Arcania, a competent young woman who had already accomplished much in her short career. A former PCW World Champion, she had fallen on tougher times since, but her resolve was never in question, as she had wrestled Kaden to a draw the first time they met. Kaden won the next round, but he would consider this the ultimate tie breaker; Francis would preach this to him, and Kaden would listen.
He laughed, shook his head, and walked inside. Like the others, his smile faded, and his laughed went silent, as he walked through the doors.
*First Blood--The tradition of a Vampire's first kill*
Now was the time to strike.
The knights unsheathed their steel, and reared their horses, letting their whinnies cry out into the poisoned air. As they charged, the beast kept its back to them, not ready yet to relinquish its hard-won feast. The horses drew closer yet, and the lead knight shouted his battle cry. Only then did the beast turn to face his challengers.
Running from its mouth like so much water from a bucket, the lifeblood of another. It wore this ugliness like a crimson mask. Yellow teeth lined in rows between its lips, wet with spit and blood, and the beast with two legs hissed. It turned away from the charge, holding something in its arms.
Joseph ran at the flank, and was the first to see it. A normal man might have halted his steed, or perhaps fallen ill at the sight, but not a knight under the banner of King Edward. Joseph heaved the end of his blade at the beast, carving a vicious slash across its chest.
Cradled in its left arm, the bloodied remnants of an infant, still in its blanket. The child was only recognizable in its size and dressing--the rest had been turned to red and black and chewed masses of pink flesh. Mathew held the lead steed, and hacked with his thick blade at the beast, taking the arm holding the child. Arm and child fell to the dirt, but the beast still stood.
Its screams sounded like waking nightmares. It spun in place, blood spewing from the gaping wounds just beyond the shoulder, and across its chest. William and John came in together, one thrusting his sword into the belly of the beast; the other swiping the beast's head off while calling out his due to his King.
The knights slowed their charge and stopped just yards behind the scene. Mathew flipped his visor and looked upon their mark: "Dead beyond dead," he said.
Joseph dismounted quickly, running to the side of the beast, and lunging one last time into its back. It jerked, then flailed, and then died. He stood with his visor raised, and showed his broad smile to his mates. He whispered in its ear: England sends her regard, demon!
"Now it is!"
They met him with laughter, and dismounted themselves. They huddled around the signpost, and looked long at the town. The Great Mortality had taken many, and this place was as devastated as any. Its neighbor, Norfolk, had not lost quite as much, but even from their ground outside the town's border they could see the dead piled in the street, and knew Norfolk would feel this wrath soon enough.
Mathew removed his helm, and smelled the air. "There is much death here."
Joseph did the same, while John and William followed.
"'Tis a shame, but the beasts herd here," Joseph said with another grin, clapping Mathew's black armored back. "Plenty of killing to be done yet!"
They mounted their steeds again, these secret Knights of Edward III, and rode into town.
******
Francis Lucia gazed upon the structure with silent awe. People filtered in in their Sunday Best, the smiles and laughter they shared while on the sidewalk disappearing abruptly as they entered the church. Francis had always found this to be such an inspiring display of power; the man they showed reverence to was not in a white collar or carrying a bible...rather, he was the man hung on the cross that adorned the wall behind the altar. His only presence in this place was in the form of that cross, or on the grand stained window, or in one of the dozen paintings that hung on three of the walls.
Francis dreamed of power, but knew his would never be as great as His. No matter his deeds, how many Houses he Fathered, no matter how many he raised to be great leaders of his kind...no one would ever drop their smiles or hush their laughter when they came to his house.
His power did grow, however. The last Son of his Seventh House was now learning the ways of their kind, and had taken a life not out of thirst, but out of rage. It wasn't quite the normal means of First Blood*, but Francis mused that it might even be better. And while his new Son was still getting his legs, so to speak, he was already showing so much promise.
Kaden had nearly beaten the promotion's champion, Lantlas, if not for his own ego and youth getting in his way. He had let his anger with his former partner, James Keenan, prevent him from winning the War Games match, but it seemed that Kaden was learning from those mistakes. Though Keenan had ended Kaden's match with Mentis before its time, one thing had become quite clear to Francis as the match played out...
Mentis could not beat him.
This great champion, eclipsed perhaps only by Lantlas in severity of reign and domination of competition, Non Compos Mentis threw every weapon he held in his possession at Kaden to no avail. The frustration on his face was as beautiful as any inside the holy place Francis stood before now.
Before his young Son now was Nina Arcania, a competent young woman who had already accomplished much in her short career. A former PCW World Champion, she had fallen on tougher times since, but her resolve was never in question, as she had wrestled Kaden to a draw the first time they met. Kaden won the next round, but he would consider this the ultimate tie breaker; Francis would preach this to him, and Kaden would listen.
He laughed, shook his head, and walked inside. Like the others, his smile faded, and his laughed went silent, as he walked through the doors.
*First Blood--The tradition of a Vampire's first kill*