Fantasy Vampyr

[Featherstone]

Table of Contents​

i. Introduction

 

[Featherstone]

i. Introduction​

"No, I simply believe you ought to have more of an open mind when you turn in vampire dust, severed werewolf heads, and the hearts of demons for a living."

The voice delivering this line was utilized with the utmost calm, lilting in a low, legato tenor that was tainted lightly by a phlegmy accent identifying him undeniably as French. No fervor or vehemence painted his speech--he said it in the way a man might explain that lightning still made fire even if it couldn't be caught in a jar and, thereby, was indisputably real. The one he addressed was one some years younger than him--late twenties, perhaps--and some centimeters below average height. A well-muscled figure, if not broad, with a rooster's swaggering gait and player's roguish charm currently hidden beneath a somber set of the jaw and rising masseter. By any purely objective standards, he wasn't much to look at: his build was not particularly impressive, nor his face overly handsome in spite of the golden blond hair and pale cerulean eyes, but he had about him an indescribable charisma, the sort whose smile could bring a blush to any naïve girl's cheeks or charm the fangs off a snake. A charisma that, currently, was somewhat subdued by the damp and the cold and the fact that he, although a tolerant man, did not fancy long hours or days on a moving vessel. Besides this, perhaps the only thing that made him memorable was the jagged diagonal scar bisecting his face, cutting his left eyebrow in two and jerking over his nose and jaw--an intimidating mark that had earned him his nickname. Kratzer. Scar.

"I'm just saying it'd better be worth the boat," Kratzer grumbled, pulling his arms against his chest to ward off the coastal chill. "Not that it's folly, just that I, for one, don't want to be chasin' another folktale for some rich bugger and coming up with dust. Normal dust. The kind that builds up on unread books, not that's made with a well-placed stake. We need the coin, Auri."

"We'll get the coin, little fox."

"I'm trusting you." Although yet unconvinced of the wisdom in this decision, he turned his attention to a warm titian glow rising from the city streets. The ship underneath his feet rocked in repetitive rhythms, a dangerous lullaby in the deep. He wasn't quite sure what to think of the legends of sirens and sea monsters but he was rather certain that he didn't want to find out. Terrestrial abominations were enough for him. So, too, were they for the ten-odd mercenaries on the deck nearby, a few coins exchanging hands while bets were made about what the infamous Spring-heeled Jack was and who would kill it and who wouldn't live to see the morning after such a confrontation. Unlike the band the two of them used to run with--the one that Aurick and his sister had headed--this one was a bit more...well. It was worse, really, which Kratzer might've said to their faces if they hadn't been trying to work together. Although a few members here and there, like Aurick and Kratzer, were well-acquainted, most knew each others' names, reputations, and absolutely nothing more. This was risky in the Prussian's opinion, given that they were supposedly hunting a demon, but it was what it was and they all needed pay and none of them were about to argue about knocking on Death's front door and then running away like children on a juvenile dare.

The group was, overall, what one would expect from a bunch of hired muscle. Some were large and girthy where others were wiry men that Kratzer would've generally pegged as pickpockets and not fighters. A mismatched and motley crew armed with silver and prayers and probably a deathwish. One thing, and one thing alone, united them: the mutual desire for Spring-heeled Jack's demise and, thus, pay. Find the demon, kill the demon, get the money for the demon, and then they'd all go their separate ways, or those who were still alive would. Kratzer's fear was that, if it was not, in fact, a demon, their employer would be stingy on pay. It wouldn't be the first time it'd happened. Not that it was a common occurrence, but with Aurick's and Kratzer's recent run of bad luck, the younger of the two was reasonably skeptical about this high-profile shebang with strangers and even a hired mage that they were to meet in London. He wasn't keen on trusting them at his back, either, but what was a man to do?

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Like a sparrow in the cold, an overly dressed man shivered, putting his shoulders up, and hiding his head in a fluffy fur collar. He was standing a little further away from the conversation, looking at the silhouette of the city, slowly approaching. His name was Dietrich (surname undisclosed thus far) - a fairly new addition to the group, who usually clung somewhere near Kratzer, since they could spoke a common language. Literally. Dietrich barely spoke anything but his native language, even though from far away he'd look like a typical Irishman: all shaggy hair of such a bright red they almost looked like glowing in the cold morning mist, and weathered skin peppered with large freckles underneath generally unkempt facial hair he seemed to get rid of every few weeks instead of keeping it in order. His massive built, however, betrayed his real continental barbaric roots - the man wasn't just tall, neither he was actually fat - he was large, as if all the bones in his body was twice the usual girth. He wasn't the most imposing man in the crew, but he surely looked like someone who'd be willing to start a fight in the docks, or yell drunken obscenities from an inn's doorway, although the reality was far from it.

The man ignored the conversation, shivering in the mist. He seemed to have some distaste to the cold. He never really spoke of demons, or vampires, or werewolves, and usually behaved almost as if he was blissfully unaware of their existence, even after another nine-foot-tall wolfman would meet its demise from a silver stiletto in the heart. Hell, he never even used the word "demon" before, other than to cuss., and laughed off any attempts to converse on the matter. If this was some sort of a joke, it was getting very, very old. He did do his job quite well, though, dragging round a small arsenal of bolt-action rifles that proved to be surprisingly useful against monstrous threat. Of course, one couldn't kill a vampire, but neither could a vampire kill anyone when both of his kneecaps were shot off by an eight millimetre bullet.

"Holy mother of god, look at that.", the rough language of his sounded like a bubbling cauldron, as he nodded somewhere into the city, soon daring to het his hands out of his pockets to point - but not into the city line, but over it. A giant black umbrella of clouds hang over it, covering the capital in a sort of half-transparent oily bubble the vessel was about to pierce. "What the hell are they doing in there!?", the brits were obviously going through their own industrial revolution, heat- and steam-powered machinery requiring lots of coal, but seeing what it does to a place from afar, creating a man-made ash-and-smoke monster whose bowels they were about to dive into, was something else entirely.

He turned his head to a small group, and it almost looked like he was turning dimmed and grey with the surroundings. "Are we going to be here long? This doesn't look healthy ." Hunting monsters wasn't too heathy as well, but still, he seemed more disturbed by the dust and grime rather than claws and fangs they were surely to meet here.