Grigori Ostrovsky smirked, fangs peaking over his lips, from the guarded bio-cockpit of his Hellhound, “Grimm”, as he listened to the Arcadian dogs panic.
“Airstrike complete. No signs of... shit! Sir! Enemy Hellhound still intact. Advise we - ” an intercepted transmission said, but he hurled a carbon spear up through its wing. He cackled, turning on his external speakers so the little ants running around below him could hear just how fucked they all were. The broken, flaming husk of the plane spiraled as it fell from the sky and slammed into a small medieval church.
“Mithris really does give me the best toys! You just can’t beat this shit!” the mercenary vampire laughed as he set upon another Arcadian mech. How many had he wrecked today? Twenty? Thirty? He’d lost count but -
Grigori stopped and his Hellhound looked over its shoulder. He’d felt something from the crash site. It was a sort of... spiritual pressure. The only time he’d felt something like this was from his master right before Grigori had to face The Pillar. Looking over his shoulder he saw a small black flame amongst the wreckage that shaped itself back into the form of a man. He was kneeling, sheltering a woman. He had broad features, a broader chest, thick arms, and thicker black hair wearing funerary clothing. Around them were the remains of the aircraft that had impacted the church, but the two people looked totally unharmed. Grigori saw the man smile, his eyes that of a hungry wolf, as he stood. Still a half mile off, Grigori could see him clearly with his impossibly sharp senses.
“Fuuuuuck me. The Arcadians have a fang too?! What fun! I don’t get to do this kinda shit every day!” Grigori laughed, projecting his voice on his external speaker, and hurled the Arcadian mecha he was busy dismembering with his Hellhound’s spear to the side, crushing an infantryman being tended to by a medic. The unknown vampire from the little stone church began to walk slowly towards Grigori’s Hellhound.
Grigori turned and spun his spear in a little flourish. “So you got yourself a Hellhound hidden around here or are things going to be real one-sided?”
The enemy vampire didn’t respond. He just kept walking and smiling that confident smile. The rain, though it was pouring down, didn’t seem to touch him.
“What’s your name?! Don’t you at least have any manners?!” he challenged, but there was no response, “Alright, rude much? I’ll start, then, because I’m a REAL vampire. I’m Grigori Ostrovsky. Now you try - who are you?!” The tall vampire walking towards him had what looked like some outdated tuxedo or suit complemented by an archaic top hat.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Alright, my guy; if you wanna be rude like that, have it your way!” The Hellhound took a step and tossed one of its spears like an olympic javelin thrower. It ripped through the air at supersonic speed, a deafening boom shattering eardrums nearby. Like a snake coiling around prey, the vampire from the wreckage dismissed his human form and flowed around the 15-foot long spear. It streaked like a bolt of black lightning until the man, still in his funeral attire, was hanging from the chestplate of the Hellhound. It had clearly scraped him because a trail of blood leaked from his chest, but the vampire from the church didn’t seem slowed down by the wound.
“What?! Shape manipulation?! That’s not possible! That can only be done by a…” Grigori objected, as if that would reverse the impossible display of vampiric power he’d just witnessed. The spear slammed into the ground some distance off, the enemy vampire having traveled the distance to Grigori’s Hellhound in the blink of an eye. Grigori had only been turned last year but even he knew what that kind of form manipulation meant...
Cruel, hungry, red eyes looked at the Hellhound and the vampire from the church’s long, thick, black hair fluttered in the wind.
“Say it,” the unknown vampire growled with a mix of arrogance and savage amusement.
“...a – a strix!”
With the utterance of that word, the vampire from the church ripped off the chestplate of the Hellhound with one human-sized hand and exposed Grigori within. Mad panic froze Grigori as the two locked eyes and he knew his fate. For a moment Grigori tried to twist or maybe lunge at the strix before him, but it just gripped Grigori’s face and pulled before Grigori even had time to begin to move. Grigori’s face and part of his skull fell wetly to the ground like a discarded leather mask.
“You know, my master, the easiest way to kill a vampire is decapitation. It’s nearly impossible for an untrained bloodling to maintain their self-image, and thus, their form, without a head...”
Kaz stood, having watched the whole horrific scene unfold. She heard his words in her soul again and just grimaced.
“I’ve made a deal with a devil for sure...” she said in disbelief, “I’m gonna regret this... so...” her voice trailed off as she watched him. “...I’d better use his power before I bite it.”
Grigori’s body hit the ground next to his face and hissed away, melting into a black puddle that mixed with the mud and was eventually diluted away. Kaz’s vampire stood, one foot on the exposed cockpit of the Hellhound that he’d ripped open as the rain fell.
“My master... shall I take this foe’s weapon and use it to enact your will?”
He was asking her if he should use the enemy Hellhound to wipe out the Mithris forces. What a horrible fate for them...
“Do it.”
They deserved it. Mithris deserved to have their toy turned loose on them.
“That which is anathema to man is anathema to decency.
To the agents of the pillars, there are many things which are anathema.
The Light of Glory, the rays of the sun, burn them cruelly and they deserve it.
The cleansing waters of a brook or stream may hinder their travel as deep snow or frail ice might hinder a traveler’s.
Their unholy corpse must rest upon a coffin at night so that it might parody the dead, mocking our deepest traditions. Only in their unholy mockery can they be comfortable and restore their body’s wounds; even if they are most grievous.
A rose, symbol of purity, doth seal them in their coffin if placed atop it - a ward against their rising again, for they cannot disturb that which is pure and beautiful with their offensive nature.
A wreath of garlic drives them from a place and wards it against them.
When decapitated they wither like a snake without its head.
They are fearful and are driven by the symbols of true faith.
They have not a reflection and silver is grievously injurious to them; such wounds persist.
Surest of all is the staking of their decrepit heart. Pierce it with an oaken stake or other stout piece of wood and they shall fall.
All this kills a bloodling, though I know not what slays a strix.”
-The Red Gospel
Chapter 3, Verse 16-27
