The night is cold, dark and starless. The only light other than the candle Mama clutches in her hand comes from the moon, whose once bright, white, inviting and warm light is now deep red, like it's been splattered with blood. You're curled up with your two sisters, Ivana and Lilia, with Mama sitting over you, her candle in one hand and a wooden crucifix in the other. Papa is nailing boards to keep the door shut, hastily trying to give you some extra protection.


It's the Night of the Blood Moon. You've never been through one, the last happening less than a year before your birth, but now, after another twelve years, it had arrived. Your eldest brother, Dornan, told stories about it, stories that chilled you to the bone, that kept you from sleep, that gave birth to the horrors of your nightmares. If even a fraction of what Dornan said is true, the screams should begin soon.


"Mama?" Lilia asks.


"Hush, darling," Mama replies, as Papa finishes boarding up the door and grabs his shotgun from it's place on the wall. He takes his spot next to you, his gun pointed at the door, and you wait.


The screams start soon. Howls of pain and terror from other houses of the town. Ivana is old enough to know to stay quiet, but Lilia soon starts to cry. Mama desperately tries to hush her six year old daughter, but to no avail.


"Sssh! Sssh, darling! It's alright, you just must stay quiet!" Papa says.


Suddenly, a tall, dark shadow passes by the window. Papa immediately grabs his shotgun, frantically raising it to his shoulder. The shadow disappears, and Papa breaths a sigh of relief.


"Scared of something?" a deep, guttural voice says from behind you.


Papa turns, firing his shotgun as the monster speeds forward. It grabs Papa's throat with unnatural speed, smiling as it holds him in the air, strangling him.


The monster looks hideous. It's dreadfully pale, it's face twisted with hate, and looks to be hairless. It's eyes are completely black, like the endless darkness of its soul, and it's mouth is filled with mangled teeth with two large fangs, curved and bloodstained, with even more blood pouring down its face. The creature snarls, before smiling as it turns to look at you and your siblings. 


"Ah... so young... so fresh..." the vampire says, licking it's lipless mouth with a forked tongue. "Peasant, your daughters are mine. Don't struggle."


The vampire tosses Papa to the ground, turning towards your siblings.


"No! No! You will not take my daughters!" Father says, grabbing for his gun.


The monster strikes, smashing it's boot into Papa's head.


"How dare you?!" the monster screams. "I gave you your land, I gave you your house, I give you your life!"


The monster begins walking toward Papa, who desperately crawls back to the wall.


"I keep the beasts away from the village! I let you roam the night all but one night every twelve years! I don't ask for your wife, to allow you to sire more. I don't ask for your son, to leave you a legacy. I only ask for your daughters! How dare you attempt to deny me that?"


As the vampire walks towards Papa, his fangs bared, you see a chance to get Papa's shotgun. Still, you don't want to anger the vampire further. Perhaps the best option is to hope for the beast's mercy.

You beg

"Please, please don't hurt my papa! We don't want any trouble! Please, show us mercy, and we'll remain forever loyal! We never miss food shipments...!"


The Vampire snarls.


"You are a sheep," he snarls. "Look at you. Look at all of you. Weak. Mindless. Sheep. You only exist to feed me. Your lifespan is measured in decades. I've lived over a millenia! I am the hunter, you are prey!"


The vampire grabs Papa's head, twisting it with amazing speed. You hear his neck crack, as the vampire drops his limp body. Tears stream down your face, as he walks towards you. He grabs you by the scruff of your neck.


"You are a sheep," he snarls.


He flings you to the ground where you bounce off the wooden floor, skidding into the wall with a painful thud. Mama tries to strike him, but he catches her hand, yanking her into his grasp and biting down on her neck. She gasps as he tears open her throat, pressing his bloody mouth on the bleeding wound. He feeds for about a minute, as you lie there, too terrified to move. Then, he strides forward, catching your sisters by the hand and lifting them into the air. He flings them over his shoulder like a young lamb, and looks at you.


"Bleet," he snarls, before walking out of the door, leaving you alone.

The Next Morning...

You only peer out of your blood-spattered house when the sun rises, driving the vampires back like a shepherd driving off a wolf pack. 


The village is destroyed, and the vampire's promise is broken. Corpses lie strewn in the streets, in various states of dismemberment. One cadaver in particular stands out to you; the baker's son, who you used to play Knights and Goblins with, has been messily hanged with his own entrails. His face is bloated and blue, and you disgustedly realize that his eyes have been messily removed. 


You open the door to your house. As it swings out, it pushes the bisected corpse of a village toddler out of the way. You promptly vomit all over the corpse. 


The sound of a carriage rolling into town attracts your attention. Two riders sit astride, dressed as wealthy mourners attending a funeral might. The man nods curtly. 


"You're probably quite angry, then."

You life continues.

A sob racks the woman's body as the grim-faced bishop slips the noose over her neck. 


"Please," The peasant woman begs as he pulls it taught and prepares to kick her off the platform. "I haven't done a thing, m'lord!"


"For the crimes of murder, incest, communing with Satan and cannibalism, I sentence you to death."  The holy man's voice wavers at death. Sympathy? Guilt? His face is unreadable, as always.  A swift kick sends her off the platform.


The young woman slumps like a marionette with its strings cut as the rope goes taught. A sign around her neck reads WITCH!


You push through the crowd of peasant onlookers. Some jeer, some gasp in horror, but most shake their head and disperse, driven indoors by the chill and rain that comes with the mountain climate. Your hand touches the sword at your belt, feeling its reassuring weight. 


"Father Harrison." you murmur, nodding your head to the older man.


"The sellsword returns," He looks at you disapprovingly. "What brings you back? No more corpses left to butcher for coin?"


You bite back a swell of irritation. "Corpses that dine on human flesh. An important distinction." 


He laughs. It's a cold, humorless sound. "Of course. Best to charge for their disposal, no?"


"Dangerous or not, I've still got to -" 


He silences you with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'll hear no more of it. Tell me what brings you back to Eden." 


"I was looking to get my sword consecrated," You say evenly. "I was told that the Holy Roman Church provided such services." 


"We are obligated to, yes." He scowls. "See Friar Jameson. Stay no longer than is necessary."

The Blood of the Christ

The basilica is empty, save for Friar Jameson, who frets over a golden bowl of what appears to be human blood. Along the carefully-crafted stone walls lie stained glass windows, displaying the adventures of various saints and angels from Catholic mythology. On the far wall is an oversized statue of Christ crushing the life out of a vampire with his two oversized fists. 


Friar Jameson looks up as the massive oak door swings shut behind you. He strides forward intently, grimly furrowing his eyebrows at you. He stops five feet away, glaring at you; you can feel his eyes pierce your very soul.


"Hello, Jameson."


He bursts into a grin and embraces you. You can feel your back crack under the big man's bear-like embrace. "Good to see you, you mercenary bastard!" 


You awkwardly pat his back. "Y-you as well, Jameson." 


"What brings you back to Eden?" He asks cheerfully, pulling back. You notice a fresh new scar running the length of his chin. 


"Lodgings for the night, and a Consecration. Been tracking a pack across the damn continent. Pretty sure they passed by here not too long ago." You explain, rubbing your shoulder. You hope he doesn't hug you again. 


His cheerful demeanor slips away, somewhat. "A Consecration, huh? Might be trickier than you expect. Blood's been angry recently." 


"How does blood get angry?" You wonder aloud. 


"Your guess is as good as mine, mate,"  He frowns deeply. "But shit's been  going very, very wrong with the Ministrations." 


You're filled with a sudden impatience. You can feel your quarry slipping away. You hand him the leather scabbard, blade inside. "Do your best, anyhow." 


You leave the church, then, leaving Jameson clutching the blade with an ever-increasing look of alarm on his face.

You find yourself some lodgings for the night.

You find yourself some lodgings at The Serpent, a run-down, overpriced inn on the edge of town. The beer has more in common with water than booze, and prostitutes and alcoholics glower at you from the edge of the common area. 


You rent yourself a room from the heavyset, nigh-incomprehensible Scottish bartender. He waves you to the back, where you find your meager lodgings. 


You lay your head against the stuffed straw pillow and doze off instantaneously.

You morning in Eden.

The sun rises over the township of Eden,  beating back whatever bloodthirsty creatures of the night lurk in its darkened streets. A cry is taken up in the town square, and it's carried to your ears on the backs of frightened townspeople. 


An old woman has been found dead in the night. Her one remaining arm is splayed out to the side, and the other lies ten feet away, on the other side of the street; it's been sucked dry of blood. 


From your vantage point in a nearby alley, you can see the church move in on the corpse almost immediately. Two glowering, armored figures dragging the corpse, along with the arm, back towards the basilica. 


One of the Paladins glares at you as you as the corpse is transported to the religious fortress on the hill. He appears to give you a silent challenge to come follow him. 


You suspect vampirism is at play, but there's no way to be certain until you can manually inspect the corpse for bite-wounds; otherwise, it could be werewolves, or even a plain serial killer. Of course, your sword is still  in the basilica being consecrated.

You follow the Paladins.

You follow the two agents of the  Church as they drag the desecrated corpse back to their armored fortress. You maintain fifteen feet of distance, and use the crowds and narrow, winding streets to avoid their suspicious gaze.


You become acutely aware of the two massive spears that they each carry; a four-foot hickory rod with a steel blade mounted on one end. You have no doubt that it could crack your head, or remove it wholesale, if swung by one of the two muscled brutes. 


They ascend the winding path to the basilica, leaving a steady trail of visceral fluid as the corpse scrapes along the ancient cobblestones.

You surprise!

The unencumbered brute suddenly turns around, at a moment where you're exposed. You try to scramble backwards, but trip over your own feet. The last thing you see is the armored figure standing over you, prepared to club you over the head.

You sweet Sleep

Finding the armored grasp of the Paladin quite comfortable, you slip once more into the land of unconsciousness. You go limp once more, leaving yourself a heavy burden for the alleged holy man to drag along. 


You awaken chained to a moist stone wall. A pounding headache graces your senses. 


"Oh, shit." you say to no one in particular. 


"Ephesians, four twenty-nine," A monotone voice chides you from the darkness. "Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear."


Even in a dungeon, with a head injury, chained to a wall, you can't escape the proselytization of  Father Harrison.

You retrieving your sword.

The restraints effortlessly fall off. You rub your wrists, slotting your thumbs into the grooves dug in by the  chains. Harrison's words about retrieving your sword linger with you; you find it curious that the elderly priest directed you to arm yourself. "Turn the other cheek" appears to have been replaced by "don't die". 


You leave the dungeon (why does the basilica have a dungeon?) and wince as sunlight assaults your senses once more. Your head injury flares up immediately, sending you sprawling to the carpeted floor. Curiously, your pain is ignored by the sparse population of friars and monks stewing about. 


You stand at the back end of the room you entered two days before. Before you lies the rom where mass would typically be held. On the leftmost side of the wall closest to you is a doorway leading to the upper floors of the building. 


A longing strikes you, the sort and intensity of which you hadn't felt in years; a desire for something spiritual, something greater than yourself. You feel a newfound awareness for your place in the universe. Either that, or you got hit really fucking hard.

You take a moment for prayer.

You sit on the closest pew, and stare at the massive statue of Jesus Christ that dominates the preacher's stage. You bow your head a moment in contemplative prayer. It feels awkward, clumsy and out-of-place, and your throbbing head prevents you from any real introspection. 


After a few minutes, you get up to retrieve your sword. Intuition tells you it's upstairs.

You upstairs

The upstairs isn't as large as you expected, but to call it "small" would be a disservice. After walking up the fifty stone-tile steps, you find yourself in a carpeted hallway, stretching out for a couple of hundred feet in front of you. 


Either side is lined with small wooden doors, where the monks and permanent inhabitants of the church sleep. Behind you is the entrance to a library; given as this is a church, there's likely not much in the way of interesting reading, unless you like Latin bibles and apologetics. 


Logically, you know there must be an armory somewhere, but it's not up here. You head back downstairs.

You head downstairs.

You head back down through the central room and back downstairs. The stairs are little more than a darkened stone tunnel, lit intermittently with  flickering torches.  Through process of elimination, you realize that the armory must be somewhere on the subterranean level. 


You walk down the stairs, with the trepidation of one who has lived their entire life in a world filled with vampires. Thankfully, nothing lurks in the shadows, and you reach the armory fairly easily. 


It's roughly a ten-foot by ten-foot stone chamber, with walls lined with rifles and the like. You find your sword fairly easily, as it's been placed separate from the weapon's owned by the church, on an opposite table. You slam it into your scabbard and buckle it around your hip. 


You go back upstairs.

You pounding at the Door

You hear a pounding at the thick, oaken door. The three friars  milling about the central room look up in alarm. You quickly approach the door, and you're ushered back by one of the stone-faced monks. 


    "It's in all of our best interest if that door stays sealed." he explains in mute tones, not meeting your eye, "A… large flock moved in on the town shortly after we sealed the church. Father Harrison saw fit to leave you untroubled with these matters." 


    "Fuck." you mutter, as you slowly begin to realize why you dislike the church. 


    "If you want to speak to him, he should be in the War Room." the grim man explains quickly. 


    "Why the fuck would there be a War Room in a basilica?" you ask, growing more irritated by the moment. 


    "Perhaps," he runs a hand over his bald scalp, sweating profusely, "It would be best if you allowed Father Harrison to explain this matter to you personally." 


    "Perhaps," you muse bitterly, "Where is the War Room?"


    "Come." he instructs curtly, as he walks back across the large room. You're beginning to suspect that it may be a very long time indeed before another mass is held in it.

The War Room

You recognize a half-dozen high-ranking priests and  town officials inside the strangely-titled War Room. They're cloistered in a semicircle alongside a parchment map with arcane sigils scratched into it. You see what appear to be troop markers, which is strange in and of itself; why does the Roman Catholic church have an army at its disposal? What army is denoted by an upside-down cross? These questions burn into your mind as Father Harrison nods to you.


    "I suppose you've started to understand that our purposes here aren't exactly… ecclesiastical." Harrison says acridly. He looks strange, armored in medieval chain with a double-barreled shotgun strapped to his back. Gone are the clipped, judgmental tones of an aging priest, having been replaced with the pragmatic, competent voice of a general ordering his troops. 


    "No," you murmur, amazed, "Not much of a Christian operation you're running here." 


    He scowls. Warrior or not, the expression still fits him perfectly. "Deus Vult, my friend. Whether you like it or not, there are occasions when God demands his flock pick up the shepherd's rod in his stead. Whether it's warlike Mohammedans and blaspheming Jews, or bloodthirsty vampires… he cares little."


    You recognize the quotation from  one of the old historical texts Sir Gregory crammed down your throat. Pope Urban the Second, shortly before the first "Crusade. You're planning a crusade." 


    "Yes," he says with a grim smile, "We're planning a crusade."

You specialist Knowledge

"But… why?" you ask, equal parts fascinated and horrified. 


    "Why not?" he responds simply, "We've been fodder for too long. You yourself were almost a digestif, when you were a lad."


    Now it's your turn to scowl. You're beginning to suspect that Harrison might be a fucking nob. "Not how I'd describe a massacre of innocents, but that's one way to describe it." 


    "Semantics," he mutters, waving your concerns aside  with a sharp gesture of the wrist, "Now, your… unique skills as a corpse-hunting sellsword put you in a uniquely valuable position." 


    "But what would you have done if I hadn't come here?" you ask. 


    "It was assured that you would come here. A job posting near Eden didn't spring up organically." he smiles, a touch of sinisterness brushing his lips. 


    "But why would I —" 


    "You will be rewarded most handsomely, let me make that clear. 


    The situation becomes clear. He's offering you a job.

You join the Crusade

You're not sure if you believe in God or not, but you believe in gold and revenge, and the Church has given you ample opportunity to sample both. Within a couple of months, your knowledge of the scourge placed you in control of a small garrison  in Eastern Europe. To your relief, you were far from the heavy fighting. 


    You expected a Crusade, but WWIII may be a better descriptor. Within a few days of the Pope's declaration, mass hysteria gripped the general populace. Although good, faithful Catholics were more than willing to take up arms, Europe's resident protestant and Jews were unwilling to fight, at first; this quickly changed when entire hamlets and villages began to disappear into the night. 


    Governments proved to be ineffectual for more than the usual reasons; most parliaments and senates had long since been infiltrated. A few dead heads of state and parliamentary massacres later, most of the governing  bodies were left headless. 


    As you saw, the  Church fought with little regard for the common man. Those who were unable to fight found themselves out in the cold, and those who found themselves out in the cold oftentimes found something colder still waiting in their homes. 


    Some might say you've found a grander purpose. Others might say you're still a mercenary,  whoring out your dignity for gold. Perhaps, both are true. However, with the war raging, you have no time for such esoteric matters.

You mixed Squad Tactics

Seven feet tall, if it's a foot. Blood drips off its curled tusks, which protrude from its mouth like massive, arching fingers pointed upwards. How does a vampire become a monstrosity like this? Gabriel tells you that it's a result of pacts with Satan. Raziel, the village apothecary, informs you that the vampires have "read the writing inside", and have unlocked the secrets to transform at will. You're not sure about either explanation. 


    Either way,  the beast is an immediate threat to the supply chain crossroads you've been tasked with defending. Gabriel trains his rifle on it; his hand shake violently as he takes aim. You can see him struggle to hold on to his gun, white-knuckled and terrified. The two other men at your position are all in similar states of apprehension.


    The ground vibrates slightly as the colossal horror shambles onwards, marching down the forested road for reasons unknown. In the feeble light of the streetlamps, you can see the blasphemous tokens hanging about its neck, made out of bits of human bone and sinew. 


    Your hand touches your own weapon, a plain-looking revolver hanging in a simple leather pouch at your waste. 


    You could annihilate the beast right now, and bring an end to its life; or, you could follow it back to its lair, and see if you can't drive out the swarm.

You bring it down!

"Fire!" You whisper fiercely to Gabriel. He complies immediately, violently jerking on the trigger. His shot goes wild, and strikes the foliage behind the creature. A flock of crows takes flight into the trees, blotting out the moon in their frantic numbers. 


    The other two men dive for their weapons, and launch a hasty volley as the creature bellows out a challenge. One bullet strikes its shoulder, rewarding the firer with a burst of thick, tar-like ichor. The other strikes a tree branch, scoring its deep  bark with an ugly new wound. 


    By the time you reach for your weapon, the jig is up. The creature barrels into your team of saboteurs, sending you barreling into the underbrush,  and sending your pistol flying into the bushes some four feet away. You sympathetically wince as the vampire plants a foot on one Gabriel's chest, and crushes his ribcage in one motion. 


    You shimmy through the scratching thorns, frantically searching for your only hope of salvation. Struck by the back of a monstrous fist, a man begins an ill-fated flight into the night sky. 


    Your grasp closes around the revolver as the third man is run through with a clenched fist through the stomach. Hot blood coats your face as he twitches and feebly claws at the oversized creature's massive bicep.  You scream in agony as a foot crushes your right hand, shattering the bones within. 


    You look up, and see the beast   standing above you. The ghost of a smirk touches it's oversized features as it grabs your other arm and plants its foot on your chest. An enormous force is applied to your shoulder. As the agony grows, you become aware of your muscles and tendons snapping like rope, until your arm is pulled free of your body. Darkness takes you then.