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- Jan 27, 2011
The things that go bump in the night. Every culture has a story about them, about the creatures that wait in the shadows, the beasts that don the guise of humans, the evil beings that seek only to use humanity as a means of sustenance. From the rakshasa of Hindi countries to the wendigo of the Native American tribes, from the Lamia of Greece to the classic American zombie adapted from Haitan mythos...The stories about these inhuman abominations run rampant. Almost all dismiss them as fantasy, as machinations of an imagination gone wild. After all, a dead body can't walk, right? And how could a another creature be able to live if the blood was completely sucked from their body?
Rest assured though, that these creatures - these things that the stories say wish to kill and consume you, even convert you - are very much real. And though not everyone will experience an encounter with these beings, those that have know the truth. And they've found a means to fight back. To turn the tide against the abominations that snack on humans and make sure they can never lay a hand on a human again. They've formed a collective group, spread all around the world, known simply as The Hunters. Formed so many years ago, these humans have spread the word of the true horrors of the demons that walk among the mortals. Have trained those who wish to fight, who wish to protect their fellow man from becoming a target for the plethora of predators that stalk them from beyond sight.
These particular humans come from all walks of life: Rich, poor, convict, honest, anything that can describe humans are the type of people who become Hunters. But despite these differences in both lifestyle and ideology, they have the same goal: Eradicate all that hunt humankind, lest they overwhelm and destroy all of man. However, it was fairly obvious that despite their best efforts that they could not be everywhere at once; no one really expected a group so widely spread to actually catch all the monsters, but the Hunters viewed every kill a monster made as an embarrassing defeat. Even worse was when they brought in scryers - people versed in the art of 'sight beyond sight' or the ability to view events from a distance - and that the losses from monster attacks continued on. Even though with the scryer's assistance, the Hunters as a whole still largely lamented their inability to stop all monster attacks.
However, this concern was quickly replaced with another; over the years small swathes of Europe were beginning to become un-scryable. It was like some dark force was blocking out the ability to see into those lands, and as the darkness grew the Hunters found their European operations slowly being shut down. Cell phones, radio contact and even arcane methods of communication were cut...It was eerily systematic. Like whoever was doing this knew how to cripple them, render them unable to stop whatever was coming. This was thirteen years ago.
Present Day. Underground Hunter HQ, location unknown. Date: March 27, 1993
"Boss...Really, I don't think sending him in is such a good idea. You have that leash on him for a reason....He's dangerous. You saw what he did to that town of zombies in Spokane!" spoke a stout man, standing with five others sitting in a dimly lit room at a long, mahogany rectangular table lined with incredibly expensive-looking chairs. Paintings of various scenes lined the walls, ranging from the last stand at the Alamo to the deathly charge during the Battle for Bunker Hill. Also lining the walls were weapons of various sorts: Broadswords, assault rifles, and daggers that appeared to more aptly belong in a Smithsonian museum than a meeting room. The speaker himself stood about five feet five inches tall, with dark black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His bright green eyes, filled with concern and worry, stared out to the rest of the accomplices as if pleading them to take his side. Like his associates, he dressed in a fine suit and had the outward appearance of a wealthy businessman; evident more was the slight gut he had from his apparent wealth.
Another man - this one more advanced in years, possessing a balding head of grey hair and taut but vibrant skin over his cheekbones - then stood to defend his colleague. "I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Monroe, sir; we've agreed to finance your operations but this seems far too much. And despite the skill of this...warrior...of yours, I'm afraid there's too much chance for excessive casualties. Besides, surely there are others equally suited to the task?" At this a third burst out in outrage, this one possessing lighter brown hair in the form of a bowl-cut, "Others more suited? Are you blind or just stupid? This...thing...has killed more than fifty Hunters! Fifty in under twelve years, and God only knows how many other mercs we sent in! We need to send him in; the time for discretion is past!" Within moments the meeting erupted into heated arguing; before long though, a loud gunshot rang out and forced all voices to be silenced. All eyes then turned to the head of the table, where a heavily-built man held a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun, the muzzle smoking as he sat back in a rather comfortable-looking armchair. From most perspectives, he looked every bit the part of an old time gangster: Dressed in a grey pin-stripe suit, wearing a fedora that covered slicked back, shining black hair and smoking a fine Cuban cigar. Fine rings adorned his thick fingers, some containing jewels in the inset while others were just silver or gold bands. Dark hazel eyes peered to the men who were so pointlessly squabbling with an intensity that few could match, one that could only belong to the true leader of the Hunter organization.
"For twelve years...For twelve years, we have hunted this thing" he started, his voice low but full of pent-up malice; he then slammed the barrel of his gun on the table and shouted "And despite everything I have said and all the manpower I have provided, we still have nothing to find where it hides! And yet you sit here and argue about whether or not we'll step on anyone's damn toes!" He was obviously quite riled; this was made even more clear when the fourth of the six suits replied, "Boss...Mr. Bolsov, please calm down, your condition..." Bolsov just snorted, "My condition is not important; what's important is figuring out why this damned thing keeps slipping through our fingers! And for that we're using him!" He then motioned to the guards at the door, heavily armored mercs wielding G36C rifles loaded with steel rounds. "You two! Go and get him! Bring him in!" he shouted to the merc on the left; the men just nodded and left the room. "And you! Bring me a scotch...I need a drink. And bring something for our friend" he then said to his associate - a medium height thin male dressed in a dark hooded robe - at his left, who gave a silent nod and stood up to retrieve the beverages.
Within moments, a knock was heard at the door; Bolsov just shouted, "Come in!" and across the threshold came a man dressed in a heavy-looking navy-blue cloak. A hood obscured much of his face; thin tendrils of silver-grey hair fell to frame what could be seen, his left eye - a brilliant shade of green - peered out at them from beneath the gray-trim hood of his cloak, his right covered by a black patch that obscured it from view. Loose leather clothing covered every inch of his form, the right sleeve of his shirt possessing strange sigils running down the length of it. A similar insignia could be seen on his right shoulder; if one were to take an initial impression of this man, he might be mistaken for someone who spent too much time at Harry Potter conventions. But this was no cosplayer or costume freak...This was Ricendithas Wolfswift, one of the oldest members of the Hunters and the only S-rank member left in the East American branch, as well as the only known true-blooded warlock in the entire organization. A sword hung in a black sheath on his hip, its hilt of shining black ivory largely concealed beneath the metal-laced cloak that hung over his shoulders...A weapon obtained from long ago to allow him greater means of slaying monsters and unholy beasts. But right now, everyone minus Bolsov was coughing like mad from the stench of burning flesh that seemed to emanate from every inch of his figure. "Good lord, someone open a window!" one of suits said in a slight panicked tone, to which another responded, "Are you crazy? The smell'll lead them all here!" "Well then at least keep the door open!"
Bolsov, however, just chuckled with an ear-to-ear grin on his face; he then asked, "So...Ric, I take it you grew bored of questioning?" The cloaked man then replied, "No...The beast knew nothing; it swore as much as I seared his skin little by little, even when I went to the bone and boiled his marrow. That meant he was either telling the truth or a dedicated liar. So I disposed of it". "So you did....Did you learn anything at all?" "Yes...Whoever was that creature's master holds a lot of power. So much that they're willing to be tortured without mercy to keep the location of the stronghold a secret". "Assuming it actually knew, which you said it did not". "Their minds are like ours: They can be truthful about anything if they believe what they're saying to be the actual truth and not just self-deception. It may not have known the location, but they knew who it was. Even with my talent in magic, I can only push the body to so much of an extreme physically and mentally". "Well...At least we have a general area...But I assume you already knew that". "Yes...Despite your efforts to keep me in the dark, I considered it an exercise to keep my ability to scry sharp. But I'll admit I didn't hear everything".
Bolsov just nodded and after taking another drag from his cigar snuffed it in a fine glass ashtray, then looked at Ricendithas, "Based on what little information we have, the target resides somewhere in Europe. That's about as far as we're able to narrow it down. The territorial boundaries aren't well-defined, but don't seem to extend into anything north of Denmark. We can only assume whatever this thing is is not fond of cold environments; then again, we've been wrong about it before". Ricendithas nodded, "This creature is definitely powerful; even my friend Albus could not penetrate the veil this creature has covered the land in, and he's a master of the craft". Bolsov just sighed, "Ric...We know it's not a lot to go on, but right now you're the best chance we have of stopping this thing". Ric paused for a moment, appearing to contemplate that which was spoken before saying "You know I can handle myself; if going in blind is the only way, then so be it". "If I might make a suggestion...Try Venice, Italy. I hear the pasta there is fantastic" "Will do...But first....The seal" Ric stated, tilting his head to expose his neck; a pentacle inscribed with odd-looking symbols around the circumference rested directly over the jugular. Bolsov just stopped, staring at Ricendithas as if stupefied; this was Ric's own work, a means for Bolsov to limit how much power he could use. "Ric...Are you sure?" Bolsov asked, the warlock stating flatly, "If I'm going in unprepared...I'll need every ounce I can muster. So yes". Bolsov was clearly hesitant, but then submitted and pulled a small silver knife from an anklestrap which he then drew across his palm, coating its wicked edge in a film of his own blood. Ric then walked around the table to where the Boss was; Bolsov then stood up and brought up the knife up to the warlock's throat.
"Boss!" "What are you..." "Are you mad" came a sudden outcry of protests, before Ricendithas stated, "Shut up, all of you. This is part of an Unbinding Ritual. Just sit down; I'll be gone soon enough". Uneasy exchanges of glances were heard, but soon enough the suited troupe sat back down. "So, a shallow cut right?" Bolsov asked; Ricendithas nodded in confirmation. "Pentaculo, continentiam, et ex qua est flamma profana ... Tollite sacrificium, quod est verum et in draconem sanguinem dimitti!" Bolsov spoke and after a quick slash, the blade cut the sigil down the center. Orange fire soon erupted from Ricendithas' palms, its color quickly shifting to blue as the heat intensified. Bolsov stepped back, watching as a bright red aura encased the warlock's body; Ricendithas then brought a palm to his neck and seared the wound shut, a slight stench of burnt skin emitting from his body. That done, the warlock just nodded and after a quick goodbye word, turned and left the meeting room while all eyes followed his progress out the door. "God speed to you, Ric" Bolsov commented; this was going to be his most difficult experience yet, he just knew it. But Ricendithas knew it too, and he accepted it. He would hunt this thing down; time was on his side after all. His own life experiences all those years ago saw to that; as the doors behind him closed, he closed his eyes and let the power of his fire magic emit from his body. The blue flame encased his whole body, giving him a near-spectral appearance; he then aimed his hands at the floor and carved a six-sided figure into the hard stone using plumes of flame to scorch it, then circumscribed it with a double-layered circle before finally carving coordinate sigils into the space between the circles themselves.
That done, he then directed small balls of fire to settle at each point where the hexagram and the circle touch; Ricendithas brought his palms together in front of him in a prayer-like gesture and spoke "Salamandra, commoda mihi mandatum. Ure per aethera cursu et coniungere, quo hinc ad vis". As the last syllable fell from his tongue, the six balls of fire lifted up from the floor and began to move in a clockwise fashion; before long it became a solid ring that hovered about his waist. He then spoke one last word: "Grassor". The ring became a column of fire that consumed the warlock entirely for a moment before dissipating to reveal that Ricendithas had vanished....Gone off on this new journey and likely his most difficult hunt yet. And worse yet, the man which had gone to get the drinks had just come around the corner to see the giant scorch mark left on the floor. His face fell; he'd paid so much to get these cleaned and prettied up too. And now it was marred to hell from the heat warping it and the burn marks in general. "Damn that Ricendithas...Letting you go better be worth it. Bring that son of a bitch down" he said, walking through the door to the shouting of Boss at how late he was and that Ric couldn't even enjoy one last drink.
Venice, Italy
In an abandoned alleyway, a cyclone of flame appeared in a flash then disappeared to reveal the warlock unharmed; Ricendithas had arrived. He looked around to examine his surroundings: Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet. It was a little unnerving that he would be so exposed, especially given how he stood out. But the Hunters were a well-known organization to the public; for many it was a ray of hope that they would be able to exterminate the beasts that preyed on mortal flesh and blood. And Ricendithas would certainly uphold to that. Giving his body a quick dust-off of some of the ash that had resulted from his teleportation spell, he then walked out of the alley and onto the busy streets. There was certainly a lot of ground to cover, and given that nothing was known about the target...He had to operate under the assumption that he'd been found out already, so walking in broad daylight would not be a problem. Plus, it might even work to lure the bastard out into the open. "Better get started then" he muttered, pulling the hood of his cloak over his face as he then followed the number of pedestrians that traversed the cobbled paths of Venice.
Rest assured though, that these creatures - these things that the stories say wish to kill and consume you, even convert you - are very much real. And though not everyone will experience an encounter with these beings, those that have know the truth. And they've found a means to fight back. To turn the tide against the abominations that snack on humans and make sure they can never lay a hand on a human again. They've formed a collective group, spread all around the world, known simply as The Hunters. Formed so many years ago, these humans have spread the word of the true horrors of the demons that walk among the mortals. Have trained those who wish to fight, who wish to protect their fellow man from becoming a target for the plethora of predators that stalk them from beyond sight.
These particular humans come from all walks of life: Rich, poor, convict, honest, anything that can describe humans are the type of people who become Hunters. But despite these differences in both lifestyle and ideology, they have the same goal: Eradicate all that hunt humankind, lest they overwhelm and destroy all of man. However, it was fairly obvious that despite their best efforts that they could not be everywhere at once; no one really expected a group so widely spread to actually catch all the monsters, but the Hunters viewed every kill a monster made as an embarrassing defeat. Even worse was when they brought in scryers - people versed in the art of 'sight beyond sight' or the ability to view events from a distance - and that the losses from monster attacks continued on. Even though with the scryer's assistance, the Hunters as a whole still largely lamented their inability to stop all monster attacks.
However, this concern was quickly replaced with another; over the years small swathes of Europe were beginning to become un-scryable. It was like some dark force was blocking out the ability to see into those lands, and as the darkness grew the Hunters found their European operations slowly being shut down. Cell phones, radio contact and even arcane methods of communication were cut...It was eerily systematic. Like whoever was doing this knew how to cripple them, render them unable to stop whatever was coming. This was thirteen years ago.
Present Day. Underground Hunter HQ, location unknown. Date: March 27, 1993
"Boss...Really, I don't think sending him in is such a good idea. You have that leash on him for a reason....He's dangerous. You saw what he did to that town of zombies in Spokane!" spoke a stout man, standing with five others sitting in a dimly lit room at a long, mahogany rectangular table lined with incredibly expensive-looking chairs. Paintings of various scenes lined the walls, ranging from the last stand at the Alamo to the deathly charge during the Battle for Bunker Hill. Also lining the walls were weapons of various sorts: Broadswords, assault rifles, and daggers that appeared to more aptly belong in a Smithsonian museum than a meeting room. The speaker himself stood about five feet five inches tall, with dark black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His bright green eyes, filled with concern and worry, stared out to the rest of the accomplices as if pleading them to take his side. Like his associates, he dressed in a fine suit and had the outward appearance of a wealthy businessman; evident more was the slight gut he had from his apparent wealth.
Another man - this one more advanced in years, possessing a balding head of grey hair and taut but vibrant skin over his cheekbones - then stood to defend his colleague. "I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Monroe, sir; we've agreed to finance your operations but this seems far too much. And despite the skill of this...warrior...of yours, I'm afraid there's too much chance for excessive casualties. Besides, surely there are others equally suited to the task?" At this a third burst out in outrage, this one possessing lighter brown hair in the form of a bowl-cut, "Others more suited? Are you blind or just stupid? This...thing...has killed more than fifty Hunters! Fifty in under twelve years, and God only knows how many other mercs we sent in! We need to send him in; the time for discretion is past!" Within moments the meeting erupted into heated arguing; before long though, a loud gunshot rang out and forced all voices to be silenced. All eyes then turned to the head of the table, where a heavily-built man held a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun, the muzzle smoking as he sat back in a rather comfortable-looking armchair. From most perspectives, he looked every bit the part of an old time gangster: Dressed in a grey pin-stripe suit, wearing a fedora that covered slicked back, shining black hair and smoking a fine Cuban cigar. Fine rings adorned his thick fingers, some containing jewels in the inset while others were just silver or gold bands. Dark hazel eyes peered to the men who were so pointlessly squabbling with an intensity that few could match, one that could only belong to the true leader of the Hunter organization.
"For twelve years...For twelve years, we have hunted this thing" he started, his voice low but full of pent-up malice; he then slammed the barrel of his gun on the table and shouted "And despite everything I have said and all the manpower I have provided, we still have nothing to find where it hides! And yet you sit here and argue about whether or not we'll step on anyone's damn toes!" He was obviously quite riled; this was made even more clear when the fourth of the six suits replied, "Boss...Mr. Bolsov, please calm down, your condition..." Bolsov just snorted, "My condition is not important; what's important is figuring out why this damned thing keeps slipping through our fingers! And for that we're using him!" He then motioned to the guards at the door, heavily armored mercs wielding G36C rifles loaded with steel rounds. "You two! Go and get him! Bring him in!" he shouted to the merc on the left; the men just nodded and left the room. "And you! Bring me a scotch...I need a drink. And bring something for our friend" he then said to his associate - a medium height thin male dressed in a dark hooded robe - at his left, who gave a silent nod and stood up to retrieve the beverages.
Within moments, a knock was heard at the door; Bolsov just shouted, "Come in!" and across the threshold came a man dressed in a heavy-looking navy-blue cloak. A hood obscured much of his face; thin tendrils of silver-grey hair fell to frame what could be seen, his left eye - a brilliant shade of green - peered out at them from beneath the gray-trim hood of his cloak, his right covered by a black patch that obscured it from view. Loose leather clothing covered every inch of his form, the right sleeve of his shirt possessing strange sigils running down the length of it. A similar insignia could be seen on his right shoulder; if one were to take an initial impression of this man, he might be mistaken for someone who spent too much time at Harry Potter conventions. But this was no cosplayer or costume freak...This was Ricendithas Wolfswift, one of the oldest members of the Hunters and the only S-rank member left in the East American branch, as well as the only known true-blooded warlock in the entire organization. A sword hung in a black sheath on his hip, its hilt of shining black ivory largely concealed beneath the metal-laced cloak that hung over his shoulders...A weapon obtained from long ago to allow him greater means of slaying monsters and unholy beasts. But right now, everyone minus Bolsov was coughing like mad from the stench of burning flesh that seemed to emanate from every inch of his figure. "Good lord, someone open a window!" one of suits said in a slight panicked tone, to which another responded, "Are you crazy? The smell'll lead them all here!" "Well then at least keep the door open!"
Bolsov, however, just chuckled with an ear-to-ear grin on his face; he then asked, "So...Ric, I take it you grew bored of questioning?" The cloaked man then replied, "No...The beast knew nothing; it swore as much as I seared his skin little by little, even when I went to the bone and boiled his marrow. That meant he was either telling the truth or a dedicated liar. So I disposed of it". "So you did....Did you learn anything at all?" "Yes...Whoever was that creature's master holds a lot of power. So much that they're willing to be tortured without mercy to keep the location of the stronghold a secret". "Assuming it actually knew, which you said it did not". "Their minds are like ours: They can be truthful about anything if they believe what they're saying to be the actual truth and not just self-deception. It may not have known the location, but they knew who it was. Even with my talent in magic, I can only push the body to so much of an extreme physically and mentally". "Well...At least we have a general area...But I assume you already knew that". "Yes...Despite your efforts to keep me in the dark, I considered it an exercise to keep my ability to scry sharp. But I'll admit I didn't hear everything".
Bolsov just nodded and after taking another drag from his cigar snuffed it in a fine glass ashtray, then looked at Ricendithas, "Based on what little information we have, the target resides somewhere in Europe. That's about as far as we're able to narrow it down. The territorial boundaries aren't well-defined, but don't seem to extend into anything north of Denmark. We can only assume whatever this thing is is not fond of cold environments; then again, we've been wrong about it before". Ricendithas nodded, "This creature is definitely powerful; even my friend Albus could not penetrate the veil this creature has covered the land in, and he's a master of the craft". Bolsov just sighed, "Ric...We know it's not a lot to go on, but right now you're the best chance we have of stopping this thing". Ric paused for a moment, appearing to contemplate that which was spoken before saying "You know I can handle myself; if going in blind is the only way, then so be it". "If I might make a suggestion...Try Venice, Italy. I hear the pasta there is fantastic" "Will do...But first....The seal" Ric stated, tilting his head to expose his neck; a pentacle inscribed with odd-looking symbols around the circumference rested directly over the jugular. Bolsov just stopped, staring at Ricendithas as if stupefied; this was Ric's own work, a means for Bolsov to limit how much power he could use. "Ric...Are you sure?" Bolsov asked, the warlock stating flatly, "If I'm going in unprepared...I'll need every ounce I can muster. So yes". Bolsov was clearly hesitant, but then submitted and pulled a small silver knife from an anklestrap which he then drew across his palm, coating its wicked edge in a film of his own blood. Ric then walked around the table to where the Boss was; Bolsov then stood up and brought up the knife up to the warlock's throat.
"Boss!" "What are you..." "Are you mad" came a sudden outcry of protests, before Ricendithas stated, "Shut up, all of you. This is part of an Unbinding Ritual. Just sit down; I'll be gone soon enough". Uneasy exchanges of glances were heard, but soon enough the suited troupe sat back down. "So, a shallow cut right?" Bolsov asked; Ricendithas nodded in confirmation. "Pentaculo, continentiam, et ex qua est flamma profana ... Tollite sacrificium, quod est verum et in draconem sanguinem dimitti!" Bolsov spoke and after a quick slash, the blade cut the sigil down the center. Orange fire soon erupted from Ricendithas' palms, its color quickly shifting to blue as the heat intensified. Bolsov stepped back, watching as a bright red aura encased the warlock's body; Ricendithas then brought a palm to his neck and seared the wound shut, a slight stench of burnt skin emitting from his body. That done, the warlock just nodded and after a quick goodbye word, turned and left the meeting room while all eyes followed his progress out the door. "God speed to you, Ric" Bolsov commented; this was going to be his most difficult experience yet, he just knew it. But Ricendithas knew it too, and he accepted it. He would hunt this thing down; time was on his side after all. His own life experiences all those years ago saw to that; as the doors behind him closed, he closed his eyes and let the power of his fire magic emit from his body. The blue flame encased his whole body, giving him a near-spectral appearance; he then aimed his hands at the floor and carved a six-sided figure into the hard stone using plumes of flame to scorch it, then circumscribed it with a double-layered circle before finally carving coordinate sigils into the space between the circles themselves.
That done, he then directed small balls of fire to settle at each point where the hexagram and the circle touch; Ricendithas brought his palms together in front of him in a prayer-like gesture and spoke "Salamandra, commoda mihi mandatum. Ure per aethera cursu et coniungere, quo hinc ad vis". As the last syllable fell from his tongue, the six balls of fire lifted up from the floor and began to move in a clockwise fashion; before long it became a solid ring that hovered about his waist. He then spoke one last word: "Grassor". The ring became a column of fire that consumed the warlock entirely for a moment before dissipating to reveal that Ricendithas had vanished....Gone off on this new journey and likely his most difficult hunt yet. And worse yet, the man which had gone to get the drinks had just come around the corner to see the giant scorch mark left on the floor. His face fell; he'd paid so much to get these cleaned and prettied up too. And now it was marred to hell from the heat warping it and the burn marks in general. "Damn that Ricendithas...Letting you go better be worth it. Bring that son of a bitch down" he said, walking through the door to the shouting of Boss at how late he was and that Ric couldn't even enjoy one last drink.
Venice, Italy
In an abandoned alleyway, a cyclone of flame appeared in a flash then disappeared to reveal the warlock unharmed; Ricendithas had arrived. He looked around to examine his surroundings: Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet. It was a little unnerving that he would be so exposed, especially given how he stood out. But the Hunters were a well-known organization to the public; for many it was a ray of hope that they would be able to exterminate the beasts that preyed on mortal flesh and blood. And Ricendithas would certainly uphold to that. Giving his body a quick dust-off of some of the ash that had resulted from his teleportation spell, he then walked out of the alley and onto the busy streets. There was certainly a lot of ground to cover, and given that nothing was known about the target...He had to operate under the assumption that he'd been found out already, so walking in broad daylight would not be a problem. Plus, it might even work to lure the bastard out into the open. "Better get started then" he muttered, pulling the hood of his cloak over his face as he then followed the number of pedestrians that traversed the cobbled paths of Venice.
