I twist the ring Frideger gave me around my finger as the pomp and circumstance plays out for the crowd. I hold no personal grudge against this Templar Commander, other than the fact that he deems himself my equal. The right to command is mine and mine alone. This one should have realized this long ago, but no matter, I will educate him shortly. My mount twitches in anticipation of the coming violence. I feel a smirk beginning to creep its way on to my face. It’s at these times I find myself to be truly at peace. The signal to charge is given while I’m lost in my thoughts and the prick gets the jump on me. He lands a solid blow that does nothing but focus me on the task at hand. We turn and charge straight at each other and I nearly dislodge him completely from his mount. As I circle back around Heinrich has noticed a discrepancy in the equipment, but it matters not. I can clearly see the unchecked fear in this man’s eyes. This contest is over. He knows it, I know it, and soon the crowd will know it…

Merethyl, the dryad traded to Oliver in a macabre deal for power, stared blankly at the wall for another hour. Inscrutable, distant, veiled in green magic in the guise of a ravishingly beautiful vampire, she had followed his every command without word or complaint. Her answers to Oliver’s questions were curt and unfriendly. He hadn’t been looking for a friend, per se, but he knew enough of leadership that one could rule through fear or love, but never dispassion.

A thought for another time. For now, she had performed her task of forming a shelter for them admirably. Oliver, Wigalf, Merethyl and Sigurd huddled in the shadow of an impromptu hut formed by the dryad’s green magics. Branches and roots from the nearby trees bent to form the walls, emerged from the earth to shape chairs and tables, even arched to form a delicate door. In the light of Wigalf’s everburning candle, Oliver could see the glances his apprentice gave the door each time they heard the roar of a crowd.

“Focus,” said the necromancer, “Rollo’s victory is assured, and with it, our safety in the Von Carstein camp.”

Wigalf feigned comfort, returning to his book. In truth, he was confident that Roderick would take him back but the young human would also lose his only edge on the other apprentices. This Necrarch was entirely too permissive with his knowledge! It was only a matter of time before he would entrust Wigalf with the Grimoire.

Oliver stood at once, closed the Grimoire and stalked wordlessly out of the hut. No one was sure if they should follow or not, but he seemed to stop outside.

“You!” Oliver pointed at a Crypt Horror in the distance. The lumbering creature, scarcely more than a lump of shadow in the night, indistinguishable from all the other lumps of shadow in the army, froze completely and turned its burning red eyes toward the necromancer. Oliver snapped and pointed at his feet. The beast instinctively resisted his command, employed as it was by other magics, but Oliver overcame them through sheer force of will. It obeyed and trundled over to him.

Oliver opened the Grimoire to a page he had held with a finger, gave a quick glance at the runes, nodded, looked back up to the Crypt Horror, and unraveled the aether which bound it. It blinked, flared its nostrils and slowly opened its maw, free of all its bindings. At long last the beast would taste the flesh of its oppressors, would hunt as its instincts demanded rather than be diminished to some fodder for a cause it couldn’t comprehend.

Or, as would be the case, it would be reduced to ashes in an instant when Oliver loosened the rest of the moorings which held its spirit to this world. It was immediately shunted to the chaotic winds of magic, disintegrated just as it raised its claws to rend the small necrarch into pieces.

“It works,” Oliver said smugly, and with some surprise, “Quite satisfactorily. Do you think Sigmier will miss a crypt horror?”

“Can he do anything about it if he does?” came Wigalf’s response from inside.

“No he cannot. That, good Wigalf, is why you are wise to stay with me.”

Grand Marshall Rollo, your choice of the Gorgon for your second was a wise choice. Your choice to attempt salvage of a valuable war asset was a wise choice.

I am young but was born with an old heart. I have walked the earth a second time for but a fortnight after walking the earth with blood flowing through my veins for 63 years. I died through an unimportant accident of fate, but I lived to test men in war. More often than not, the machinations of vampires created the conflicts in which I led. A strong general knows the mind of his adversaries.

War has not changed in these thousands of years. Nature has not changed in millennia. Nor have vampires changed. Vampire leadership is not like the mind of human leadership. It seems paradoxical that beings without heart or soul are not driven by all that seems left—the mind. But it is not our place to question nature.

Wise choices for Grand Marshall watched as you were chosen to lead the von Carsteins. Bold choices win the heartless and soulless.

Cosette enthusiastically leaped out of bed and made her way towards a large cabinet in the back of room. Ziegfried had faced many challenges in life but none as beautiful as this one. It was a shame Zax would not be able to depict this glorious night but some adventures are better left discrete. She was undoubtedly pleased with his performance over the last few hours. What could Cosette be racing for in that cabinet? Sigmara had been a surprisingly meat and potatoes girl, not that there was anything wrong with getting back to the basics. Ziegfried imagined whips and chains for a moment before realizing that probably be more Mercy’s style.

Cosette flung open the cabinet doors and rummaged about before turning around wearing only a grin from ear to ear and some sort of apparatus around her hips. Surely that was not meant for Ziegfried to wear as it be rather redundant in purpose. Where was that supposed to go? Ziegfried felt his blood chill as his mind connected the dots together for him. He was up for just about anything but this was something else.

Cosette saw the look of hesitation on her lover’s face. She began to speak but stopped when she saw him step back in response to her approach. Ziegfried caught himself mid-flinch and realized that this encounter was over. He thanked his host for a wonderful evening while gathering his things and stepping out, never turning his back to Cosette.

Safely outside the tent Ziegfried took a moment to compose himself. It had been an amazing night but all things must come to an end. Two down and one to go! As he adorned Zax his mind turned to warning Glaedwine. Despite being the competition he was a fellow Von Carstein after all.

“Nah.”

There was a meeting with Mannfred and the Wight Kings. The others boasted of their accomplishments and the Count pressed for more details on the matters that interested him. He seemed focused on Oliver’s former master and his mental state. The necrarch was supremely confident he would not fall to the same fate. That didn’t mean he was right however.

The Templar commander landed hard in the mud as Rollo again demonstrated how quickly he could adapt to any battlefield. He was fortunate they did not battle in earnest. Rollo’s strength continued to increase and though the commander rode well in his saddle and moved with grace, he would quickly find himself a smear on Rollo’s mailed boots if things truly came to blows.

Mannfred made to stand to say something but was forestalled by the enraged Templar wiping the mud from his face and screaming for satisfaction. “This contest shall be to the death!”

Heinrich and the crowd expected Rollo to run the whining disgrace down on the spot but instead he offered clemency. However, when the Templar spat upon his mercy Rollo beat him into the ground with decisive alacrity.

Ziegfried proffered the envelope with elaborate pomp. Heinrich did what he could to open it gently with his ruined hands and read the first few flowery lines of prose in what seemed to be some formal invitation.

“What?” Heinrich rasped dryly, “Did I do something to piss you off?” Heinrich pushed the invitation back towards Ziegfried and strode off into the night. A moment later he heard Ziegfried’s laughter booming after him.

It was hard to keep searching among the captured lake town folk. As dawn approached all Heinrich could see were exposed wrists and throats all pulsing with Life and calling to him. But though he searched all night for any sign of Gertrude or Hans, they were not there.

As the coaches surmounted the hill the Von Carstein war camp finally came into view. It was a massive sprawl of tents and war machines illuminated by countless torches and fires. When the coach finally pulled up to the entrance of the camp Ziegfried quickly excused himself. Had the package finally arrived? It taken months for the servants of Drakenhoff to find and secure the various implements he had requested(after they did the research for him.)

He entered his tent and saw a large chest in the middle of it. It was finally here. He unlatched the lock and opened the lid. Gold light poured out from inside and Ziegfried covered his face for a slight moment before catching himself. The mace was largely wrapped in cloth but parts of it were uncovered. Engraved symbols and designs weaved throughout the metal like a beautiful tapestry.

The Templehofs use warp stone to prop up their petty rebellion. In response I will seize the power of Heaven itself to strike them down.

Ziegfriend smiled and took in the sight of it all. He examined the other items included with the mace. A balanced light blade, a magical salve and an elven chain shirt. All in order to get an edge in the battles to come. There was just one thing left. A servant spoke from outside the tent.

“The… tattoo… artist you sent for is here.”

“Send him in,” Ziegfried said.

Rollo and Ziegfried seem ready to fight, but not that ready to follow orders of their liege. Maybe that will increase the possibility of burning Blood Dragons together.

It seems we will be going to war and it seems that the old undead tactics live longer than the undead commanders themselves. As the commanders have no value for their troops and the troops have no value for their existence, it seems a simple matter of moving multiple masses of bone and death together to generate smaller pieces of bone and more death. I will try to employ better tactics as ones individual power is only so high.

My power is still growing but seems to have peaked. I am now able to sway Arachnarok, a unit of hex wraiths, and a cairn wraith. Hopefully that will be enough to sway some battles, or at least to bring some small vengeance upon a Blood Dragon.

Heinrich survives and Dagomar is being sent off. Interesting developments to say the least and a trade that I will happily take. I have no idea what Dagomar did to be dismissed from our company and I must admit I am somewhat curious. I am not surprised that Heinrich survived his ordeal in the least bit. Something torments that one and gives him an inner strength that goes unnoticed by most.

So now we return to the main army. Eschen’s army is under our command with the out of favor Necromancer out front. Gregor is dead. We know the warpstone is in Templehof. And a prize worthy of a grand hunt is in my possession. After summoning an angel of Bane I was able to confirm that Reynald and Sigwald have definitely been bound. I was also given a cryptic piece of information, “Tety was the son of Unus and his throne name was Zehetapway. The inscriptions were done by Sabo who was named Chetay”, so I got that going for me.

Last but not least was the deal with Blackroot. In exchange for pieces of the forest outside Templehof and in the forest of the great hunt, Blackroot will align his forces with Drakenhof and fight our enemies. Oliver was clearly in favor of the deal, Heinrich was clearly against the deal, and Ziegfried wanted to talk with Mannfred before striking a deal. I chose to make the deal. We need all the allies we can get right now and we don’t have time to go running back to the main army every time a decision needs to be made. If Blackroot becomes a problem I will deal with him with extreme prejudice. If I made the wrong decision Mannfred will either have me clean up the mess or kill me. If I showed indecision, Mannfred would have me clean up the mess or kill me. I will not be guided by fear, I will be decisive…

Dagomar, Oliver, and even the Gorgon eyed the ancient skrit of the tome from a safe distance. It rested unceremoniously, open, upon the muddy wheel of a black coach, illuminated in soft violet in the night only by the glowing orb in Oliver’s hand. Even Rollo and Zeigfried stood nearby, curious about their captive’s most treasured book.

“Nehek?” questioned Dagomar. The others nodded. The writing of the first humans was easily recognizable but prone to traps. Not in the sense of being attacked by the book itself, but more the insidious nature of its ideas. A glance at Greghor’s decrepit form was evidence of that.

“Is it-”

“It is,” answered Oliver immediately, “Nothing else could be responsible for the change we witnessed. I almost pity him.”

Dagomar snorted, “Why do you think I cut out his tongue?”

“You didn’t see me objecting,” Oliver responded, “Nothing coherent was forthcoming from him any longer. We will need to capture what remains of his Ab before it disperses.”

“And hope Blackroot doesn’t eat it first.”

The Grimoire Necronium just watched them.

“THE PATH TO MADNESS.” The Gorgon’s gravelly, booming input startled everyone, as it usually did, given its rarity. Oliver lifted his chin to meet the Gorgon’s unyielding stare,

“I am well familiar with that path, I can assure you. We all are. It is a precipice, the art of magic is, and we are all in danger of slipping from it. Let Greghor be our reminder. Nevertheless,” he turned and stepped slowly forward, returning the gaze (for his witchsight indeed revealed the book’s elevated nature) of the Grimoire until he stood before it. The coach’s large wheel allowed it to rest at eye level, “It promises an untapped power.”

Rollo, leaning against a tree with his arms folded, piped in, “Did it promise Greghor the same power?”

Oliver smiled darkly, “Without a doubt.”

“Look what it got him.”

“We can conclude then I must succeed where he failed.”

“You’d better,” said the Templar, “Because the first time I see you with some weird shit grafted onto your body, I’ll do to you what we did to him.” Nearby, the Gorgon nodded in agreement.

Oliver rubbed his chin, his smile faltering slightly, “Duly noted.”

The head of the behir was hoisted atop the coach and lashed into place before the vampires climbed in and pulled tight the drapes. The necrarchs and Oliver’s slowly expanding coterie rode in one coach while Ziegfried, Rollo, and the Gorgon settled into the second. As the hours passed Heinrich heard little of what transpired around the Gorgon, preferring the oppressive silence of oblivion to interaction with the world surrounding him but something kept scratching at the edges of his perception.

“Well of course he’s Heinrich, who else would he be?” Ziegfried’s voice echoed distantly through the Gorgon’s hollow shell.

Heinrich. Is that who I was? Am I still that man?

“Well no, I don’t know how he’s Heinrich. Who cares? He fights better, he talks less, maybe he’s a little more repulsive but honestly,” Ziegfried gestured grandly as his magnificent cloak rippled around him like molten gold, “When did anyone really want to look at Heinrich before?”

Heinrich roused himself to peer out through the Gorgon’s eyes and found his vision largely occluded by the faceless full mask of the helmet the Gorgon wore. Through the narrow slits he could make out Ziegfried waving a silver goblet about as he waxed poetic to Rollo about their former classmate.

What would my family think of me now? How could I ever face them?

Ziegfried was still speaking. “He never styled that unruly hair of his and I’d seen rat’s nests more organized than his beard. Maybe Gustave left him in the oven a smidge too long, but bald is an improvement I say.”

Rollo made to say something as Heinrich reached up and peeled the Gorgon’s helm off his face. The scarred tissue stuck to the inside of the mask stretched and came loose, it still had the fresh weeping look of a raw wound that had never been given time to air out and heal. But as Heinrich’s eyes came into view they were not blazing green with the Gorgon’s petrifying glare, but rather were a sickly yellow and red color that beheld the two Von Carsteins with the beginning signs of recognition.

Ziegfried was unfazed and merely smirked and continued to poke fun at Heinrich’s taste in clothes, his awkward dancing, and anything else he could come up with until Heinrich’s hoarse voice croaked something. Ziegfried paused for a moment and leaned closer, “What was that Henry? Speak up.”

“Fuck… You… Ziegfried.” Heinrich rasped.

Ziegfried leaned back in his seat and glanced at Rollo before bursting into laughter.

“Told you it was Heinrich,” he concluded victoriously.