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"There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene".

"Over the top, boys!"

Came the harsh call of Major Stansfield, which froze the blood into icy razors within the veins of the men in the trench, for those words meant death. With mute terror, the American men-at-arms lifted themselves out of muddy ditch, clenching their rifles in white-knuckled death-grips so tight they were liable to splinter the wood. Sergeant Morrison made it over the top first, taking the fateful tentative step forwards into No Man's Land that sent him tumbling back into the trench sans most of his skull. Running full tilt across the blasted ruin of the former French farmland, dropping like flies as bullets tore them apart like gory fruit, spraying their insides across the ashy field. One man ran on regardless of his state of disembowelment, his entrails dragging behind him like an obscene nest of serpents. His charge was only stopped when the mass of viscera was entangled on a strand of barbed wire, which sent him sprawling to the ground in a shrieking mass, still clawing towards the enemy. Black, leaded death exploded from rifles in the German trench, ripping men apart in the same manner cruel idiot children tear apart dolls. As the Americans finally reached the lip of the enemy trench, they were shocked and horrified by what greeted them in the sodden ditch. Not men, but monsters. Hideously deformed soldiers clutched rifles in malformed hands, gangly mutants bursting out of their uniforms grabbed on to the Americans with maggot-pale hands, dragging the shrieking warriors into the ditch. Horrid faces with mismatched teeth and idiot eyes let out fetid moans as they crushed the skulls of fallen men with clubs, giggling as their grey matter oozed into the mud, mingling with the gore. Too late to halt their charge, the Americans stumbled into the trench that would soon become their graves, desperately attempting to claw their way out as misshapen hands pulled them back and broken teeth descended upon their flesh.

From the opposing trench, Major Stansfield could hear nothing but screams of agony and sporadic gunfire from the German-manned trench, but that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the silence that followed after a twenty minute period of endless screaming. Through the hazy fog of war, the Major could make out shapes making their way towards him through the mist. At first, he could not make out what the strange shapes were, until they drew close enough for him to see what they really were, horrible abominations derided from Mankind. He gave the order to fire just as the first monster in a German uniform leapt into the trench, knocking the American prone and helpless as the thing's mouth bit out his throat. He couldn't even scream as the blood spurted from his neck, as his men were ripped apart by the monsters surely from Hell. As his eyes began to close, he saw a dozen twisted pale faces with yellow, idiot eyes looking down at him.

Welcome to the Great War, more commonly referred to as World War One. It is the year 1917, and the war is in full tilt, with thousands of lives lost in the horrid meat-grinder known as the Western Front. More than simple human greed and lust for power drives this war, however. Dark eyes watch from the shadows, taking full advantage of the chaos to advance their own awful schemes. As the casualties mount and the bodies pile, the things of nightmare begin to show themselves, indulging in the greatest feast they have partaken in in centuries.



KINDRED

Noble House of Scipii (pronounced: skip-pea-eye)
WS-6/BS-5/S-6/W-3/I-7/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: None
COMMON NAMES: The Exiles, The Hunted, Bloodthieves
DESCRIPTION: The Scipii are utterly unique among the Kindred, possessing no Sire, an anomaly that makes them a target for extermination by their fellows. Jealous of the Brutii and the Julii, the House of Scipii captured and murdered several of their vampiric members, imbibing their blood in a ritual that transformed them into Kindred. The other two houses never forgave them for this treachery, and began a war of extermination against their kin. Driven to near extinction by the predations of the Brutii and Julii, the Scipii have become masters of camouflage, disappearing into whatever country they inhabit, desperately attempting to pass themselves off as a member of their hated rivals.
TRAITS: Scipii PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
1 Base of operations
May masquerade as a member of another Noble House (Brutii or Julii) without drawing much suspicion. In addition, lupines are more willing to bargain and negotiate with the Scipii due to their outcast status.


Strigoi (pronounced: Strig-oy)
WS-7/BS-3/S-6/T-5/W-3/I-6/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: Unknown, possibly Lillith
COMMON NAMES: Shadows, Kinslayers, Night Terrors
DESCRIPTION: The Strigoi are a race of Vampires nearly as old of Cain himself, having hunted the primitive Humanii for thousands of years. All Strigoi are thin and cadaverous, their skin papery and ethereal, and in some cases, appearing as walking skeletons. They often have long, pointed ears arching out from their hairless skulls. What truly set Strigoi apart from the rest of the Vampyre race is their ability to drain the life force from other Kindred, draining them dry as a typical Vampire would drain one of the Cattle. This trait makes the Strigoi mistrusted by their kin, and there has even been a call for their extermination.
TRAITS: Strigoi PCs have all the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Strigoi may gain sustenance from feeding off other Vampire characters, this has the same effect as feeding off of a human or werewolf.
Strigoi may have one major NPC and one minor NPC and may have one base of operations

Opriknikki (pronounced: O-prick-nicky)
WS-6/BS-2/S-8/T-7/W-3/I-5/A-4/SV-3+
SIRE: Ivan the Terrible
COMMON NAMES: Black Riders, Ivans, Ferals
DESCRIPTION: The Opriknikki are terrible to behold, massive humanoids built like tanks, with an oversized mouth stuffed with shark teeth. On average, an Opriknikki stands eight feet tall, and is often clad in black or red robes. Males always sport massive black beards that fall down to their waists. The Opriknikki were once the enforcers of Ivan the Terrible, terrorizing medieval peasants for sick games of sport, dragging them through the streets behind their black steeds. When Ivan was Embraced, he bade his warriors to join him in Undeath. The Opriknikki leapt at the chance to practice their cruel way for eternity, and allowed Ivan to Embrace them in turn. The Opriknikki are notorious for ripping apart their foes with their bare hands, and tearing at them with their teeth. Opriknikki do not feed as other Kindred do, rather, they devour the remains of their prey whole, often leading Hunters to mistake Opriknikki attacks as werewolf attacks.
TRAITS: Opriknikki PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Opriknikki may NOT have any NPC followers, but may have base of operations
Opriknikki also suffer from the Frenzy trait, as described in the Werewolf entry

Noble House of Brutii (pronounced: Brute-tea-eye)
WS-6/BS-5/S-6/W-3/I-7/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: Brutus
COMMON NAMES: Romans, Princes, Betrayers, Et tus
DESCRIPTION: The spawn of Brutus are among the most proud and arrogant of the Kindred, claiming a direct bloodline to Cain, the First. The Brutii (singular and plural forms are the same) surround themselves with the trappings of wealth and nobility, scheming and plotting within great towers and complexes staffed by innumerable thralls and lesser Kindred. Hunters are often wary when on the trail of a Brutii, for these proud Vampires are often two or three steps ahead of them before the hunt even begins. The Brutii avoid direct conflict if they can, preferring to use thralls or Childer to do their dirty work for them. This is not because they are cowardly, but simply because they see physical combat and work as beneath them.
TRAITS: Brutii PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Brutii may have up to two mayor NPCs and two minor NPCs and may have two bases of operation

Noble House of Julii (pronounced: Jew-lee-eye)
WS-7/BS-4/S-7/W-3/I-7/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: Julius Narciso
COMMON NAMES: Highbloods, Crowd Pleasers, Darkblades
DESCRIPTION: The Noble House of Julii is one of the noble houses of Rome that pledged themselves to Cain whilst he walked the earth. For years, the Julii served Cain with complete and utter loyalty, serving as Cain's ordo militant, hunting down his enemies throughout the Old World. When Rome fell, the Julii were forced out into the wilds, fending for themselves among the untamed woods of Europa. Now having reorganized to a degree, the Julii once again serve as enforcers of the will of Cain.
TRAITS: Brutii PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Julii characters begin the game with a silvered melee weapon of some sort, often a sword or a spear.

Dhampyre (pronounced: Dahm-pire)
WS-6/BS-3/S-6/T-5/W-3/I-6/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: Varies
COMMON NAMES: Half-breeds, Thinbloods, Daywalkers
DESCRIPTION: Dhampyres are a tainted combination of Humanii and Vampire blood, creating a creature more akin to one of the Cattle than one of the Kindred. When a Humanii ingests a large amount of Vampire blood, they run the risk of becoming a Dhampyre, a half-breed Vampire that can walk about in the sunlight, going where the other Kindred cannot. Dhampyres are more often then not deliberately created to serve as spies and messengers for their masters, being fed the blood of their Kindred master daily, enslaving them to it's coppery tang, and making the Dhampyre utterly dependent upon it's sire. Dhampyres sport fangs, but they are much less pronounced then those of their Kindred brethren, appearing only slightly pointed.
TRAITS: Dhampyre PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Dhampyres are not killed by sunlight
Dhampyres may have up to two major NPCs and one base of operations
Dhampyres do not NEED to feed off of Humanii blood to survive, however, Dhampyres instead require blood from a Vampire each day or begin to starve, as per the Vampire entry.

Totenmaske (pronounced: Toe-ten-mask-eh)
WS-7/BS-5/S-6/W-3/I-9/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: None
COMMON NAMES: Skin Takers, Fleshdrinkers, the Twisted
DESCRIPTION: The horribly disturbing Kindred known as the Totenmasken are former Vampires transformed into hideous creatures by drinking great quantities of Ancient Vitae tainted with Black Magick. A Totenmaske stands on average six feet tall, with pale, gangly limbs that touch the floor. They are whip-thin, with rubbery flesh that is nearly transparent in its paleness. The Totenmasken have no faces, only the vague impressions of eye sockets. They do not feed on blood as the other Kindred do, but on the flesh and terror of their victims. The fingers of a Totenmaske are hollow, little more than sharp tubes that the creatures use to sink into the bodies of their prey. With horrible suction, the Totenmaske literally drinks the creature's meat, sucking it into itself. More horrifically, the Totenmaske can assume the form of those it has 'drunk' from, sounding and appearing as their prey did in life. Most of the Kindred won't have anything to do with the Totenmasken, and some Vampire factions have attempted to exterminate them along with the Strigoi.
TRAITS: Totenmasken PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Totenmasken do not require Vitae to survive, but must instead absorb the flesh of a human or Kindred. Once absorbed, the Totenmaske may shapeshift to appear as that creature for a full week before the flesh begins to slough off.

DeCarian (pronounced: Deh-care-e-ens)
WS-6/BS-6/S-6/W-3/I-6/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: Claud DeCarrie'
COMMON NAMES: Madcaps, Loonies, Crazies
DESCRIPTION: When inmate Claud DeCarrie' escaped the Bastille during the French Revolution, he got more than his freedom. The convicted mass murderer fell victim to one of the roving Kindred packs that stalked France during those dark and tumultuous times, and was Embraced by a reckless young vampire who was intoxicated with her own power. DeCarrie' marveled at his newfound powers, and promptly murdered his sire and whent on a year long murder spree in which he Embraced no fewer than twenty victims. However, DeCarrie's madness was passed down through his gift of Vitae, and his childer bear his lunacy and derangement. Over the years, the DeCarians spread throughout Europe, preying on the homeless and downtrodden. DeCarians remain among their own kind, as interacting with the Humanii is extremely difficult for those whose very blood runs with insanity.
TRAITS: DeCarian PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
DeCarians are irretrievably insane, and many have multiple personalities. You must roleplay this madness.

Nachzehrer (pronounced: Nock-zer-ur)
WS-8/BS-4/S-7/W-3/I-9/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: None
COMMON NAMES: Nightcrawlers, Tunnelers, Morlocks
DESCRIPTION: The horrors of the trenches employed during the Great War were innumerable. During the day, men faced rats, bullets, mortar fire, gas attacks, and infection. At night, they faced the Kindred. The Great War provided a wondrous banquet for the race of Vampyre, with thousands upon thousands of displaced citizens and soldiers making easy meals for the hunters of the night. The trenches provided a buffet line of warm flesh and Vitae for the Kindred to enjoy, and none did more so than the Nachzehrer. As the sun set on the battlefield, clawed hands would burst from the soft soil, followed by pale, maggot-white bodies clad in ragged uniforms, which fell upon the men in the trenches with abandon. The mutilated corpses could easily be explained by mortar fire or some other wartime hazard, and the Nachzehrer themselves were careful to be long gone by the time others arrived, burrowing into the earth to await dusk once again.
TRAITS: Nachzehrer PCs have all of the traits granted to Vampire characters, with the following exceptions:
Nachzehrer may tunnel through soft earth and soil, and thus have the Infiltrate special rule.

Dyybuk (pronounced: die-buck)
WS-6/BS-6/S-6/W-3/I-7/A-3/SV-3+
SIRE: None
COMMON NAMES: Mindfeths, Kruegers, Dreameaters
DESCRIPTION: Despite their immortality and resistance to damage, the Kindred may still be slain. This mortality irks them to no end, was not the Embrace supposed to make such fears a thing of the past? By brutal application of violence, a Kindred may enter the Final Sleep, and the end of their supposedly endless existence. A Kindred's spirit joins a vast sea of vampiric souls that twists and whorls in the psychic morass known as Gehenna. Most Kindred lose the ability to retain their personalities and minds, becoming little more than manifestations of
energy that drift about aimlessly. Some, however, keep their minds intact, and become creatures known amongst the Kindred as Dyybuks. A Dyybuk lurks betwixt Gehenna and the mortal plane, in the realm of dreams. A Dyybuk has no physical body, and can only interact with the mortal plane by entering into the dreams of those it wishes to contact. A Dyybuk can alter the dream according to its whims and desires, often taken great pleasure in hunting the dream self of one of the Cattle through a nightmarescape of its own devising. A Dyybuk drains the sanity and psychic energy of its victims, slowly transforming them into broken husks that waste away from starvation as the Dyybuk steals even their most basic survival functions. A Dyybuk is extremely difficult to permanently kill, and an exorcism by a sorcerer employing White Magick is often most effective. Another method may be preformed by the victim themselves, fighting against the Dyybuk in their dreams. This method is extremely dangerous, and should only be attempted if the dreamer knows exactly what their tormentor is. Dyybuks may also possess a victim by overtaking their dream self and 'riding' the body like a grotesque mount. Over time, the host's features begin to subtly warp and change, growing to resemble that of the Dyybuk.
TRAITS: Dyybuk PC's have the following traits:
Dyybuks must spend a night tormenting a victim (any sentient non-Dyybuk, other Kindred will do) by entering their dreams. The victim makes an opposed Ld roll against the Dyybuk, and on a failed roll lose a point from their Toughness score. If a victim is reduced to 0 Toughness in this fashion, they enter a catatonic state, their minds utterly destroyed. A catatonic victim makes no save against a Dyybuk's Meat Puppet ability, and are instantly under its effect.
ONEIROMANCY
Unique to the Dyybuks is a form of Black Magick called Oneiromancy, which allows the Dyybuk to alter the minds of their victims through spells. A Dyybuk counts as a sorcerer for all abilities and attacks that target sorcerers. A Dyybuk can only use Oneiromancy spells against its current victim.
DEVOLUTION: A Dyybuk may cast the Black Magick spell Devolution only to cause madness in a target.
DREAMWARP: On a successful power roll, a Dyybuk may alter a target's dream in any way it chooses (at GM's discretion).
MEAT PUPPET: If the Dyybuk beats its victim (who takes a penalty equal to the number of Toughness points the Dyybuk has drained away) on an opposed Ld test, the Dyybuk forces itself into the body of its victim, able to walk about clad in flesh once again. However, the Dyybuk may be killed in this form provided it fails a Ld test when it looses its last wound in physical form.
A Dyybuk always starts with a single minor NPC who serves as its victim..

Black Magick spells:
A vampire character begins with a single Black Magick or Blood Magick spell that they may cast. This choice may not be changed after character creation.

Temporal Flux-A character with the ability to use Black Magik surrounds themselves with an Unholy Aura which warps reality,granting the user the ability to attack with supernatural precision.
This power is used at the start of any player events,if sucessfully cast it enables the caster to re-roll all rolls to hit and to wound.

Master's Lure-Ensnared by the Black magicians powers...those affected by this spell find themselves in thrall to his will.
This power is used during any payer event,if successful it grants the Black Magik user the ability to enthrall (for one combat phase) one opposing PC or NPC,who must pass a LD test to resist the effects.

Revelation of Flesh-The Black Magik user unleashes a writhing ball of Demonic power which tears it's targets flesh from it's bones.
This power may be used in any player event,if successful it counts as a shooting weapon for the black magik user (using his/her BS) and has the following stats..
S-8/AP-1

Breath of the Pit-The Black Magic user unleashes a typhoon of Noxious energy covering it's opponent..
May be used in any player event shooting phase.
The Black Magik user must pass a magik test,if successful,this spell acts as a template weapon,any characters hit suffer one wound on a D6 roll of 4+ with no save allowed.

Putrefy-Offering Praise to it's foul God's,the Black Magic user spews forth a disgusting miasma upon it's foes.
Used during any phase of a player event,if successful,the Magik user hit's all enemy targets with a ST-3 hit,saves apply.

- Devolution- The Black Magik use unleashes a flash of swirling energy wich envelopes the target PC or NPC,resulting in unspeakable mutations and madness.
This spell may be used once during Player combat,the Black Magik user selects a target PC/NPC and a magik test is taken...if successful a D6 is rolled...if the result is higher than the target PC/NPC's toughness the PC/NPC suffers a mutation/madness chosen by the magik user..(more on this later).

Entropic Lash -The Magik User blast at his foes with an evil lightning...
Used during any Player event,if magik test is successful Magik user selects target PC/Npc..and the following attack counts as a shooting attack with the following profile..
ST-4/Ap-3/ AS-3..
All saving rolls apply.


BLOOD MAGICK SPELLS

EXSANGUINATE
The Sorcerer forces the blood within the target's veins to burst forth in a horrifying display as blood streams from every available orifice. To use this spell, the Sorcerer must succeed on a magick shooting attack. Exsanguinate has the following profile:
Range: 24"/Assault 1/AP-3/S-7

CRIMSON MIST
In an hour long ritual involving the 'death' of the caster, the Sorcerer becomes a roiling cloud of Vitae, able to possess the bodies and minds of creatures. Vampires can travel in the daylight in this form, but find a host within an hour or suffer the normal effects for being caught in the sun. A creature in the thrall of a Sorcerer is under his total control, performing any action regardless of the danger to their own person. If the host is killed, the Sorcerer is forced back into his mortal form and suffers 1 Wound from psychic backlash.


PROMETHEANS:
Sad creatures, the Prometheans are a race of golem-like constructs that are manufactured by the Kindred in the morbid 'Crooked World' as cheap labor and slave-stock. The Prometheans are loyal to their creators, falling utterly for their false promises of becoming human once theri toil is done.

Necropolitian
WS-4/BS-4/S-6/T-7/W-3/I-5/A-3/Sv-2+
COMMON NAMES: Patchworks, Burtons, Stitches
DESCRIPTION: Created from multiple corpses, the Necropolitians resemble patchwork parodies of the Humanii. Necropolitians run the gamut from Frankenstein-like hulking monsters to whip-thin, gaunt figures. Like all Prometheans, the Necropolitians are extremely resilient, and are able to survive total dismemberment as long as their nail remains within their dead flesh. The Patchworks are animated by a nail of pure copper driven into their bodies, often in the back of the head.
DEFINING VIRTUE: Charity
DEFINING VICE: Envy
ANIMATING ELEMENT: Copper Nail
TRAITS: A Necropolitian reduced to 0 Wounds continues to function, but any further Wounds cause the Necropolitian to begin to fall apart as their sutures open. At -4 Wounds, a Necropolitian is incapacitated. An incapacitated Necropolitian is helpless, and may not defend themselves, and as such, all close combat attacks automatically hit.

Jontunn
WS-5/BS-4/S-6/T-7/W-3/I-5/A-3/Sv-2+
COMMON NAMES: Icemen, Frostbite, Ice Blood
DESCRIPTION: Jontunn are created from frozen corpses and are brought back by a spark of energy and to keep their life flowing they must draw energy from all around them in order to keep themselves going, rooms feel cold when ever they are around and the surface of their skin in frozen and cracked because of the energy that is being taken form it.
DEFINING VIRTUE: Fortitude
DEFINING VICE: Wrath
ANIMATING ELEMENT: Iron Spike
TRAITS: A Jontunn a put all of his effort to take more Energy from the area, the area is filled with a bitter cold not only because the area is but because he is drawing the energy from others around him. All enemies get a -3 to initiative, even Vampires feel it too as their skin goes dry and starts to freeze.

GHOULS

Domestic Ghoul
WS-6/BS-6/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-5/A-3/SV-3+
The man waiting in line in front of you at the post office, the pretty girl at the counter, could be ghouls, and you would never know it. Ghouls are creatures that eat human carrion to achieve immortality, raiding the graves of the newly buried to feed on the sweat meat inside. Unlike the Kindred, Ghouls can walk about unseen and undetected amongst the Humanii, often leading respectable and honest lives during the day while eating the flesh of the dead at night. Besides their unnaturally long lives, Ghouls are often attractive and appear rather young. The Ghouls and the Kindred have an agreement of sorts, the Kindred drink, the Ghouls eat, and nobody gets hurt.
TRAITS: These stats are for a Ghoul who has fed as normal, a starving Ghoul reduces stats by -1 for everything except wounds and saves until stats have reached -3, at which point a Ghoul loses a wound. Ghouls must eat at least a pound of fresh Human meat each night or begin to starve. A Ghoul who reaches 0 wounds due to starvation becomes a Degenerate Ghoul. Degenerate Ghouls have the following profile:
WS-7/BS-2/S-7/T-3/W-3/I-6/A-3/SV-3+
Degenerate Ghouls are not suitable for player characters, and pass into the control of the GM.

WEREWOLVES

Nrajah (pronounced: N-raw-jaw)
WS-8/BS-3/S-7/T-7/W-3/I-6/A-4/SV-3+
COMMON NAMES: Nomads, Rogues, Outcasts
DESCRIPTION: Among the Werewolves, the Nrajah Clan is unique. They stand as the only Clan to refuse Lycaelon as their Alpha, and were subsequently driven to the outskirts of lupine society. Hated and despised by the rest of the Lycanthropes, the Nrajah Clan keeps a low profile, avoiding contact with others of their kind, as well as the Humanii and the Kindred. For the most part, the Nrajah remain hidden from the view of all others, dwelling in long forgotten woods and bogs. The Clan tends to bring in Lycanthropes that are at odds with the rest of the Clans, sheltering them from the wrath of their kin.
TRAITS: Nrajah PCs have all of the traits granted to Werewolf characters, with the following exceptions:
Nrajah characters may not have a base of operations.
Nrajah characters may have two Major NPCs and one Minor NPC
Nrajah characters do not need to devour human flesh to avoid starvation, animal flesh will do.

GRUBRAH (pronounced: Groo-bra)
WS-9/BS-1/S-8/T-8/W-3/I-6/A-5/SV-3+
COMMON NAMES: Ferals, Longfangs, Madclaws
DESCRIPTION: The Grubrah are monsters beyond words. They gather in small hunting parties by night to raid the countryside, devouring entire villages over the course of several hours. Those of the Grubrah Clan are huge and imposing, often standing head and shoulders over their Humanii prey. Often, the giant monsters bear large scars and necklaces of teeth taken from difficult kills. Their reputation as barbarous savages is well known, and even Opriknikki are hesitant to engage them in combat. Both the Opriknikki and the Grubrah have a healthy respect for one another, earned from centuries of bloody conflict and death.
TRAITS: Grubrah PCs have all of the traits granted to Werewolf characters, with the following exceptions:
Grubrah characters may not have a base of operations.
Grubrah characters may have two Major NPCs and one Minor NPC
Grubrah characters have the Rage Universal Special Rule while in Wolf form

LYCAELON (pronounced: Lie-kay-lon)
WS-8/BS-3/S-7/T-7/W-3/I-6/A-4/SV-3+
COMMON NAMES: Regals, Alphas
DESCRIPTION: First and foremost among the Lycanthropes are those of the Lycaelon Clan, named after the founder of the Race of the Wolf. The Lycaelon take great pride in their heritage and make sure that the 'lesser' Clans show them proper respect in their presence. The Lycaelon are the most social of the Lycanthropes, mingling with the Humanii as easily as Ghouls or some of the Kindred, hiding the Beast away until the proper time. They despise the Nrajah as traitors to their race, and hunt them down with relish, even allying themselves with the Kindred to hunt them down. The Lycaelon are the most patient of their kin, content to take time to ensure that their kills go unnoticed.
TRAITS: Lycaelon PCs have all of the traits granted to Werewolf characters, with the following exceptions:
Lycaelon characters may have two Major NPCs and one Minor NPC and two bases of operations

MGRAL (pronounced: Meh-graal)
WS-7/BS-4/S-7/T-7/W-3/I-6/A-4/SV-3+
COMMON NAMES: Skinwalkers, Those-that-play-with-their-food
DESCRIPTION: The Mgral Clan is the closest to Humanity out of all the other Clans, mixing and mingling with their prey to better understand them. Most Mgral appear in the dredges of society, the homeless, drug attics, gangsters, and others all may be a Mgral in human form. The Mgral act as scouts and spies for the rest of the Clans, watching for signs of Hunter or Kindred activity in the area.
TRAITS: Mgral PCs have all of the traits granted to Werewolf characters, with the following exceptions:
Mgral characters are more likely to identify a Hunter or Vampire on sight, and against such characters receive a +1 to Initiative

RAHL (pronounced: Rawl)
WS-8/BS-3/S-7/T-7/W-3/I-6/A-4/SV-3+
COMMON NAMES: Zealots, Overlords
DESCRIPTION: The Rahl Clan seeks to enslave the Humanii, breeding them as slave stock and as a steady food source. The Rahl see Lycaelon as the God of the Hunt, opposed to Cernunnos, who is revered by the other Clans for his prowess. The Rahl view the Master of the Wild Hunt as a Pretender God, and openly mock him. This has caused Cernunnos to curse the Rahl Clan, giving their prey the upper hand during hunts. The Rahl are always attempting to enslave Mankind, whether through lies and manipulation, or brute force.
TRAITS: Rahl PCs have all of the traits granted to Werewolf characters, with the following exceptions:
Curse of Cernunnos: During combat, all foes gain a +1 to their Initiative with attacks aimed at the Rahl character.

SHUNKAHA ( Pronunced: ShuN-KaHa)
WS-8/BS-3/S-6/T-5/W-3/I-8/A-5/Sv-3+
COMMON NAMES: Swiftclaws, Shadowfangs
DESCRIPTION: The Shunkaha are a unique version of lycans. They have evolved and adapted first to have great stamina and speed. Wide chests support huge lungs and long, flexible arms, legs, and spines allow them to run great distances at fast speeds in order to keep up with and assault cavalry. This build also allows these wolves great feats of litheness and agility, they have naturally quick reflexes and have an affinity for stealth, stalking their prey unseen from the darkness of the night until just the right moment to strike. They are ambush killers, hitting the enemy with many quick strikes whilst he is unaware. They are often employed as infiltrators and even assassins amongst the lycan kind. The Shunkaha originated amongst the horse cultures of the Huns and Mongols where the great Genghis Khan and Atilla led them across the steppes. Later, they were also seen in the Native American populaces of the great plains where they were led by such wolves as Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull.
TRAITS: In addition to the regular traits of werewolves the Overclock and Hunter's shadow applies to the Shunkaha...

Overclock: Shunkaha are able to force their cardiovascular and respiratory system to kick into overdrive should the need arrive. If a Shunkaha character loses their last wound they have a chance to escape and live to fight another day, however this massive draw of energy reduces their healing speed for a period of time. When a Shunkaha loses their last wound, on a roll of 1-3 they are able to escape the fight. They cannot heal until they find a safe spot and then have to wait until a different day phase to return to normal healing speed.

Hunter's shadow: The Shunkaha are known for their ability to sneak into the homes of any threat and eliminate it quietly, it is also rumored that for every clan leader there is at least one Shunkaha assassin prepared to eliminate the leader should they threaten the clan. A Shunkaha can attempt to sneak up one their enemy, on a roll of 5 or 6 they deal double the wound for every successful wound for the first round of attacks.

HUNTERS

HUNTER ARCHETYPES
During character creation, a Hunter PC may opt to give his character a special set of skills geared towards the elimination of a certain group of supernatural foes. Once an Archetype is chosen, it cannot be changed or swapped out for another one.


"Tank" aka Juggernaught
WS-4/BS-5/S-6/T-6/W-4/I-4/A-3/Sv-2+
Hunter decked out with heavy armor. Sacrifices speed and mobility to act as a shield for his fellow hunters. Juggernaught are usually hunters who were gifted with natural brute strength.
Gear: Chamuel Pattern Armor grants them a 2+ save.
Flechette gun for vampire threats, Shotguns with silver laced buckshot for werewolves.
Come at me bro!: The Juggernaught negates one full wound in the combat phase, but at the cost of -2 to their Strength.

"Sniper", Stalker
WS-4/BS-6/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-5/A-2/Sv-4+
Stalkers prefer to deal with their enemies at a distance in order to help prevent them from being injured, killed, or converted.
Gear: High caliber rifle with silver tipped rounds, scope is has night vision capabilities. Low caliber pistol with silver tipped rounds.
Squeeze the Trigger: Allows a reroll for any missed shot that turn, may not fire next turn.

Close quarters, Dervish
WS-6/BS-4/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-6/A-4/Sv-3+
Dervish's are the close quarters experts of the Hunter order, named after the religious practice of the Sufi to whirl around to reach religious ecstasy. They usually wield two blades for a specific supernatural and wear standard armor, although lighter armor is often preferred.
Gear: Ariel or Michael pattern daggers. Ariel daggers are anti-werwolf while Michael pattern daggers are anti-vampire.
Whirligig: The dervish increases the ferocity of their attacks. The dervish gets an additional attack at the cost of -1 to their toughness to represent their lack of attention to defense.

"Medic", Lazarus
WS-5/BS-5/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-5/A-3/Sv-3+
Medics are standard hunters who are responsible for bandaging the wounded and granting mercy to those who become infected. They began to arise after the realization that most hospitals either question the wounds received from fighting the supernatural or weren't capable of dealing with those wounds.
Gear: Raphael pattern medical kit, SMG or pistol with silver tipped rounds. The Raphael pattern kit is a blessed medical kit and allows a reroll against chances of infection.
Soldier, Joans
WS-5/BS-5/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-5/A-3/Sv-3+
Called Joans after the patron saint of soldiers, the basic troops of the hunter order are trained to use all forms of weaponry. They are effectively Jack of All Trades, Master of None.
Gear: May use any sort of weapon and use standard gear, the most ambiguous role available.
Ability: I love the smell of napalm; the Joan is the only hunter class who can rig and disarm explosives.

Sorcerer, Djinn
WS-4/BS-4/S-4/T-4/W-2/I-5/A-2/Sv-3+
These are not full blown sorcerers, but those hunters gifted with psychic abilities.
Gear: Archangel Haniel talisman, prevents supernaturals from interfering with psychic abilities.
Abilities:
Telekinesis; the Djinn can hurl objects or things with their minds.
Ward; the Djinn casts a psychic shield around their fellow hunters, preventing mind control.
Holy Bolt; the Djinn casts a bolt of holy energy towards the supernatural causing massive damage at the cost of having to recharge for a turn.

Soldiers: Joan..
WS-5/BS-5/S-4/T-4/W-3/I-5/A-3/Sv-3+
Called Joans after the patron saint of soldiers, the basic troops of the hunter order are trained to use all forms of weaponry. They are effectively Jack of All Trades, Master of None.
Gear: May use any sort of weapon and use standard gear, the most ambiguous role available.
Ability: I love the smell of napalm; the Joan is the only hunter class who can rig and disarm explosives..

MAGES

Blind Guardian
This group prides itself in the order of magic. They believe magic comes from the balance of the universe. They take magic very seriously believe everything must be thought through meaning they take time with what they do. While they are not prudes, they do frown on magic being used recklessly. They will take a long time refining their abilities and making sure things work, for them better safe than sorry. There training is based around long studying and training. Shaping there skills to the best they can.

A Blind Guardian can add +3 to magic rolls but failure means not being about to cast for the next 3 rounds.

Bonus Spell

Arcane Balance: The mage can make one of his allies attacks not miss for the next 1 turn.
DR 7

Gray Matter
This group is a strange type of mage. They channel magic through chaos and the will of the mind. The Gray Matter also have a very open view of the world to the point where their not just agnostic about god but agnostic about everything, to the point where some believe reality is just a state created by human minds and that it is possible to pierce that reality. While they do pride themselves in their bizarre views they are not stupid or random, most are very calm and distanced, mostly because their training is based around meditation and self actualization oppose to strict studying and training. While that is the safe way of training, more inpatient and young mages will use hallucinogenic drugs to brake through the vale of reality.

Gray Matter mages can add + 3 to their magic rolls but failing the spell will make them loose touch with the world around them and can't do any actions for the next turn and being open to any hits.

Bonus Spell

Distortion: The mages forces their view of reality onto another making them miss a turn
DR 7 but the target gets 5+ save

The Prodigy

The prodigy will harness the power of spirits and daemons bring about their powers. The Prodigy feel magic is a very personal road, it also relies on the connection with other people and other beings. The prodigy will bind themselves with powerful spirits. From Babylonian Demons, Christian Angles to Forest sprites. What ever the bind themselves with they then must live in balance with that being and they can take a huge toll on a person body.

A Prodigy may add +3 to magic rolls but failing will make the mage loose a wound.

Bonus Spell

Spirit Guardian: The mage brings his spirit to protect them self. The mage gets a 2+ armor save for 1 round
DR 7

Mage schools

Mages pick 1

Umbra

Dark Surge- The mage channels all the raw emotion into themselves or an ally. The mage can use this to bump a person’s BS and WS +2 for 1 round.
DR 5

Draw Ectoplasm – The mage draws the ectoplasm from corpses in the area and on a person of his/her choice and can give them +2 SV for a number of round equal to the number of corpses in the area, they must be human corpses but can also be non-mortal.
DR 7

Death Specter – The mage bring a powerful dead spirit into the world. The Specter his created by drawing ectoplasm into the psychical world so I can be harmed by psychical attacks. It will remain in our world for 3 rounds but the mage can try to maintain it for another 3.
WS-6/BS-/S-5/T-4/W-2/I-7/A-2/Sv-4+
DR 9

Army of Darkness – The mage brings all the death energy into one area will the area with dread, ectoplasm will start to drip from the walls and ooze from corpses, while this is going all the spirits in the area are being driven made. This power makes the connection to this world more fragile dropping the enemies to 4+ for 3 rounds
DR 11
Needs one turn of preparation and can only be used once an encounter.

Dark Guardian-The mage creates a powerful beast to fight for them but the mage cannot act while it is active and if the mage is attacked the guardian falls apart.
Dark Gaurdain
WS-7/BS-/S-7/T-7/W-2/I-4/A-2/Sv-2+
DR 12
Needs one turn of preparation and can only be used once an encounter.

Deus

Power of Life – The mage lets a person live one wound after zero, only one person can have this during fight and that person will end up dying after the fight if not immediately treated and even then the wounds can be too sever to help.
DR 5

God’s Hand- The mage waves the future in miner way. The mage can make any target reroll their next failed roll and pick the better result or they can make an enemy reroll their next successful roll and accept the lower result.
DR 5

Astral Projection – The mages send his/her from spirit their body and have it guard another person giving them a 2+ SV. The mage is inactive in this state and can hold this for 4 rounds.
DR 7

Give life- The mage can heal 2 wound any person an event. They can also distribute the wounds how the like so they can heal the wounds individually.
DR 9
Needs one turn of preparation and can only be used once an encounter.

Weaver of Fate- The mage now controls the strands of fate, able to change the immediate past to serve his whims. If successfully cast, the mage can choose to force the opposing side to skip their next turn OR count their (the foe) last turn as having never happened, and as such, all lost Wounds and whatnot are restored.
DR 12
Needs one turn of preparation and can only be used once an encounter.

Arcane
Channel Energy- The mages shoots a bolt of charged energy.
S-6 AP-4
DR 5

Third Eye- The mage sees past the normal veil of the world and sees things more clearly. The mages attack all get a plus 2 to rolls for the next three round.
DR 5

Redirect- The mage can cast a hidden ward over him/her self. The next attack the mage takes will be directed back at the enemy with the same force
DR 7

Emotion Surge- The mage plays with the balance of one’s mind to manipulates there emotional balance. The target can be filled with zeal and fight one giving them +2 strength and toughness or fill an enemy with stupid rage -2 to WS and BS
DR 9

Power Master – The Mage channels a powerful attack that harms all enemies in the area.
S-7 AP-2
DR 12
Needs one turn of preparation and can only be used once an encounter.


Failure.

Two dice are rolled.
Double 1's - Mage takes a wound
Double 6's - Mage's spell backfires. If it is a positive/protection spell, nothing happens just a normal failure.
Anything else - normal failure.

3 days earlier:


Jean raced as the trees of the forest began to blur into one dark green amalgamation. His horse panted heavily as the two steadily bounced through the thick terrain.

"I shouldn't have gone alone." the frenchman thought to himself as a howl resonated in the dark. He turned his head in the direction of the wild call and tried to discern true forms from the shadows created by the pallid moon hanging in the inky sky above. The rustling of branches made him turn his head to see a large wolf keeping pace with his chestnut horse, "Damnit." he swore softly to himself.

Jean pulled out a miniature crossbow and took aim with the small wooden device, finding his target he fired. The blessed bolt sailed through the air and slammed into a tree that quickly vanished out of view just as quickly as it had appeared. Jean swore as he tossed the now useless device to the ground and pulled out his revolver. The wolf looked at him as he aimed, Jean was determined to stop this pursuit and loosed several shots. The volley caused the pursuer to yelp and trip over itself as it shredded into one of its legs and side. Jean smiled as he holstered the weapon and returned to the path ahead. His eyes widened in shock as another large wolf stood a few feet in front of him. The wolf sent its palm into the horse's chest, crushing the hearty beast's lung and pulsing heart, before sending horse and rider over head. Both fell with a loud thud and several cracks, Jean looked to his right and saw his horse, "Raven", straining to take in air as blood poured from its mouth. He could feel the creature's pain and grimaced as he tried to move himself, Jean looked down to see that his foot and leg were pointed at a horrible angel. Jean desperately tried to reach for his weapon before the thing that tossed them both to the ground would be on him.

His arm was soon pinned against the ground and he gasped as the force began to crush his forearm.

"Well, well, little hunter." the wolf said in German, "Looks like you won't be making it to tomorrow."

"I don't speak that language, hound." Jean said in French before spitting at the creature. The wolf sheared off Jean's hand with his claw at the insult.

"I speak yours, but I will not repeat myself for something as petty as you." the wolf replied in French, "Maybe I'll just kill you if you tell me who sent you."

"I will never say anything to help your kind." Jean replied as he struggled to free himself.

"Oh well then," the wolf replied with a wolf's grin, "your compatriots will send more and maybe they will be of more use.". The wolf released his grip on the Frenchman and began to stalk off, "Sasha, Olga, dinner." he said in wolf tongue. Jean screamed as two other wolves began to tear into him.

Current day:

"Thank the lord we're finally off of that cursed ship." Private Desmond Bruss said as he stretched in the salty air.

"Can't say I disagree with you on that Des." Arnold said as the two walked down the boarding plank, their gear weighing heavily on their back. "Now we just have a war to fight.".

"I don't like boats none too much." Des replied, "See how many guys got sick on that tin can?".

"Yeah, but we were all cooped up in there." Arnold replied as they walked into the awaiting port town. "Shouldn't get orders for awhile and we already checked in so let's check out the town.".

A gypsy woman eyed the two men in uniform as they walked down the street, "Soldier man, soldier man." she called out from near her makeshift hovel.

"I think one of the locals like you Des." Arnold elbowed Desmond and pointed at the woman in loose clothing.

"Geeze, I've heard about these gypsy girls." Desmond said as he watched the woman approach them.

"Soldier man, I tell you your fortune yes? Give you amulets to protect you yes?" the gypsy said to the two.

"No thank you ma'am." Arnold replied, "I don't have any money on me."

"How about you soldier man?" the gypsy turned to Desmond.

"Oh no, I don't need..." he was stopped as the gypsy leaned forward to whisper into his ear.

"Desmond Bruss, I know who you are and why you're hear, come with." the gypsy said in clear English.

"Maybe I'll go with her real quick." Desmond said to Arnold who just waved them off with a smirk.

Inside the little hovel, trinkets, amulets, and other local items hung from the roof. "Its not easy living like this you know." the gypsy said, "Now on to the business of why you're here."

"Something about things that go bump in the night right?" Desmond said as he fondled a rune carved necklace.

"Yes, hand me your gas mask." she said as she rummaged through a sack. "I need to give you a different one."

"Alright I guess." Desmond said as he handed her his mask, soon he was being handed one that looked identical to it, "What's this, I thought you said you were going to change it?"

"I did, this one has enchanted lenses in the eyes." the gypsy said, put it on and tell me what you see."

Desmond looked at the mask cautiously before placing it over his face, soon he saw a purplish outline surrounding the gypsy, he looked out to see that everyone outside was outlined in a bright white. "What is all this, the people have color surrounding them."

"Good, they are working." the gypsy said with a nod, "Now some information for you, the color coding for the mask." she waited for Desmond to take off the mask before continuing, he examined it in his hand and tried to see the trickery involved. "This mask lets you see past the guise and into the true spirit of the things you see walking around you, the colors reflect their spirits. The white you see means that the people are just people and not infected by any sort of evil, the purple you hopefully saw means a person who can practice magic, their spirit is filled with energies most people do not have, now you won't see any for awhile but red is for vampire they feed off of the blood of the living and their spirits have been painted with it, brown is for werewolves who are creatures of nature and reflect the land they live off of, and there is a black.".

"What's the black represent?" Desmond asked.

"The black are things that you do not want to fight alone.", they will rip the flesh from your bones before you can even scream.".

"I don't know, I've taken on some pretty tough nasties before." Desmond replied cockily.

"You are an American, you have not yet seen true evils like we have here." the gypsy replied, "Your werewolves are like puppies to the ancient ones we have here, your vampires but children to the ones within our lands, I warn you, run if you are alone.".

"I'll keep that in mind ma'am, now if you excuse me I've got to catch up with my friend there before he thinks we did anything scandalous.". Desmond said as he tipped his helmet to her and made his way out of the tent. He quickly caught up with Arnold.

"So?" Arnold inquired.

"She did a card reading, said I'll live to see my great grandchildren." Desmond lied and smiled.

"Yeah, we'll see about that then." Arnold joked back.


OOC:

Player: Halonachos
Name: Desmond Bruss
Physical: 17 years old, 5'11", dark brown hair,
Archetype: Soldier, Hunter
Gear: Springfield 1903, enchanted gas mask, bayonet.
Biography: Desmond comes from a long line of hunters and is using the guise of becoming a soldier in order to carry out the Network's duties.

Player- WARORK93

Character- Syd Harlow

Race and clan/archetype- Werewolf/ Grubrah

Age- 75 years

Physical Description- Tall, about 6'5, strongly built, thick arms, hard in body and countenance, scars across the torso, a few around the arms and legs, two along the right cheek, one along the bridge of the nose, unkempt mane of dark brown hair and rugged facial hair, grey eyes.

Weapons- Lee Enfield SMLE rifle, bayonet, mills hand grenades,two engraved schofield revolvers in a leather holster belt, a cut down model 1897 trench gun, Silver bladed bowie knife with a set of knuckle dusters nothced in.

Backstory- Enter the American southwest, circa 1870, the wild west, The lawlessness, the wilderness, the supernatural.....Harlow grew up among the filth and scum of society, he became so averted to such beings that he felt compelled to combat them wherever he could find them. In doing so he became a Texas ranger and battled the criminal element for years on the frontier. His life was as normal as it could be for a lawman of those times but it was not destined to stay that way for long. Little did he know that one of the criminals he had so earnestly chased was an elusive hunter of the supernatural. He evaded Harlow for months and was finally lost to him after a long chase. This was not the end of the story, however, the hunter was also being chased by a pack of wolves and soon Harlow found himself in the middle of the battle between the two forces. Framed by the hunter, Harlow was beset by multiple wolves alone. When the smoke had cleared the only being left alive, though wounded and bloody, was Harlow. The victory was hollow, however, and to Harlow, worse than death. He was bitten and so cursed to be a monster for the rest of his life. Now, shunned by men, hunted by many, he travels alone, on the fringes of society, shunning his less than human form, a lost soul in a now larger than mortal life world. He was chased across the entire continental US and so, in a bid to escape his pursuers, he began to trek across Europe.

The great war was something of a surprise for Harlow. He had always bought into the thinking that the war was just another European dispute of royalty and rivalry but when it turned out to be so much more, his need to belong to something bigger than himself as well as his desire to satisfy his new more violent needs prompted him to cross borders and join up with the Canadian expedtionary force. His unit was soon moved into Europe though it could not get to the front line quickly enough for Harlow. Just when he thought he had found something approaching the wild west; the confused and hazy battlefield where law ruled no man, his new nature reared his ugly head and he found he was not the only creature of violence attracted to the war by the promise of hot blood and warm flesh.

Virtue- Tenacity- Harlow has a fiery spirit like no other, he may not be the biggest or strongest wolf to have ever lived, but he does not know the word "failure" or "impossible." His drive is unbreakable, as a result he has been dealt wounds before that were known to have killed lycans larger than him and live through them. He has walked the line between life and death more times than most wolves could dream and he has come back from the precipice each time through sheer force of will.

Vice- Selfishness- In the end, Harlow is only interested in what benefits himself. He has been known to betray others, to commit horribly immoral and some would consider evil acts for his own benefit. Though he has been known to stick his neck out for those close to him sometimes, there is a fine limit to his small amount of generosity.

Stats- WS-9/BS-1/S-8/T-8/W-3/I-6/A-5/SV-3+

Location- Ypres, Belgium

Special rule- Grubrah characters have the Rage Universal Special Rule while in Wolf form

Picture-

OOC: Initial post will be up soon...

Blood...

He smelled it everywhere. The land was saturated in it, old and new, dry and wet, cold and warm. there was no escaping it. Out in the bloody expanse known as no man's land it was simply impossible to get away from the crimson substance...

The substance that he desired so badly, the liquid that every fibre of his being called out for and demanded with a great hunger. He was no man, for any man who might experience such an unquenchable urge would go insane from its overwhelming power. He was once a man but every month when the moon was full and strong and shining down upon the scarred land with its silver light, he became something that could only come from a man's worst nightmares...

A beast of fur and muscle, sinew and sinister talons whose maw was filled with fangs that dripped with globs of malice...The chill of the night bit at its black nose as wispy steam bellowed from it with each slow and guttural breath. Through each water filled shell hole it slinked as a predator might stalk its prey. Its direction set for the few scant lights that eminated from a man made trench on the other side of the field. For such a large, rage filled crature, it travelled incredibly silently, its tufts of brown fure matted with mud as it brought itself closer on all fours to its meal. As he drew closer to the trench he could hear voices speaking in a hman tongue he was not familiar with. they were mixtures of young and old, experienced and green, timid and confident. But no matter how different they mihgt sound they all smelt of fear. It waited, ready to pounce, coiled like a spring, its muscles tensed for the move. It waited for a very long time, until the moon was high in the sky. It possessed a beastly intelligence like no other and knew that it needed to wait, biding its tme like an animal in a cage until just the right moment. Eventually voices moved away leaving only one singular scent and this scent began to move...

Down the trench it followed the scent, its massive silhouette hidden by the shadow of night and the stark pitch black of the land which seemed to have fallen under a spell of silence. The secnt moved back and away from no man's land until it was a decent distance away from the front and only then did it dare to rise from the trench. It saw the man that gave off the scent, just another hapless lad sucked into this meat grinder of a war. The beast tensed, the moment it had been waiting for finally coming to fruition, this is why he had come, so this thing he had been cursed with could have free reign in an already confused landscape...

The manfound a spot he seemed to like and his hands went to fumbling for his trousers. The beast need not wait any more, with a snarl it leapt high into the air driving all of its power into the man's back who hadn't even the time to look behind him and only just enough time to yelp before he was knocked into a dugout and had his throat savagely torn. Blood pooled under tha man who even as he died was eaten alive by the animal that now stood over him. It revelled in the blood shed, tearing huge gouges of flesh from bones with loud tears and growls. Its heart thumped and its hair stood on end with the insane, unearthly pleasure of slaughter. It howled with joy at the kill...

Voices, more voices and more scents and the sounds of bootfalls in the darkness, voices asking questions and now lights all converging on it. It snarled at the men surrounding him, the lights they held used to take in the bloody, mud covered horror in front of them whose black lips were raised back to reveal its crimson stained fangs and coal eyes.

Yells, yells and shots in the night...Howls, howls and blood and...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Light...

He awoke gasping from the very real nightmare that had haunted him last night like so many nights before. His hands came up to rub his face and shake the gore ridden images out of his head. Slowly and groggily he looked at his hands and flipped them back and forth just to make sure he somehow hadn't invoulntarily changed...

Finally convinced that he was indeed human for the time being, he jumped down from his bunk in the dugout under the trench. He fumbled for a canteen on one of the benches in the dugout and finally found one that was filled with water instead of alcohol and relieved his dry throat. He looked down at the canteen and thought it funny, here he was in one of the wettest battlefields in the Western front and he still needed water even though yesterday and all the days he could remember before he had sworn to himself if he ever saw another drop of water it'd be too damn soon...

He ambled over to the cracked mirror over the muddy sink and examined his grizzled face in the it. Slowly he drew out his bowie knife and scraped it down his cheeks to get rid of the stubble. It wasn't like he wanted to but then again there wasn't a big amount of razors or shaving cream along the front but there were plenty of lice. After a few minutes of that with suprisingly no knicks he examined the job in the mirror and it was then that he caught his own eyes in the reflection...

It used to be that he could stand looking himself in the mirror, when the act was no more disconcerting than any other daily activity, but now whenever he did so, he was reminded of that beastly thing that lurked behind those eyes...Just shadows dancing back and forth as the single lightbulb swung above him. With that dreary reflection, it was just a small matter of grabbing his helmet, rifle, and duster before he made his way into the main trench along the front. It wasn't much more light above ground than it was below, the grey mass of clouds that threatened rain never seemed to disperse. In fact, it wasn't another few minutes until droplets began dripping from the brim of his helemet annoying cutting down his vision. But this was displaced by the fact that he had finally reached his usual spot along the wall which already had a few soldiers clad around it.

"Oi, look who decided to come back from the dead!" One of them said in accented english.

"Hey Yank, that was some kind of trick you pulled last night, never thought no yank could out drink Wallace." Another said. He got a laugh out of that. It was no secret that he was an American, hell, he pracitcally wore the fact on his sleeve. Some might think it strange that an American was wittingly allowed into the Canadian army but then again, the army was in need of experienced fighters like Syd Harlow.

Syd pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and put it between his lips. "He didn't cry too much did he?" He asked sarcastically as he leaned against the mud wall of the trench looking down at the miniature puddles at his feet.

"No but he was pretty mad when he woke up." Another Cannuck spoke up, this time in a French accent.

"Let him stuff it up his high born, British ass." Harlow replied as he lit the cigarette. It was just then that loud bootfalls could be heard coming down the trench and the men scooted back as much as the tench would allow as two men walked by with stretcher carrying a bandaged and bloody soldier who moaned softly. For several minutes, the men stood their, not able to do much more than look at their own boots and ponder their mortality. Harlow only scowled, he'd thought this war would be different. Why he had no bloody clue. Slowly the conversation picked back up around him as he sat there and smoked. He was lost in thought about what he was doing there, in the most damp hellhole one could contrive, with the shell of a town at his back and a relentless enemy at his front...Why didn't he just--

"Hey Syd." Someone said interrupting his thoughts. "I said have you heard? The Americans just arrived in France."

"That so?" He asked numbly. "Better late then never I guess."

"If you ask me they can all go home." Another soldier put in hastily. "We've been doing fine in this war without any Yanks to muck it up." he said before catching Harlow's mock look of insult. "No offense of course." He added before quickly shutting up.

"Let me tell ya, the ones that really want to be here, or should I say wanted to be here, have already found a way to get here, the rest--" Harlow began before suddenly being distracted by the slight sand sudden sound of a vibration

There it was again, on the edge of his extended hearing, the small and whispery thumps that he had come to recognize in the past year as the wail of men's doom. He waited just a fraction of a moment more until the shell was in the air over no man's land...

"Incoming!" He yelled as loud as he could and dove himself into a culvert in the trench, most of the others followed, cursing and stomping through the mud, having been accustomed to the constant interruption by fire. All excpet the few green replacements who sat there for just scant seconds more looking up as if in a trance. the first shell made a shrieking whistle as it dived into its decent, hittng the lip of the trench and spewing mud and shrapnel this way and that as it exploded thunderously. Something warm and wet hit Harlow in the face but he kept his eyes closed over the next few minutes as the barrage finally petered out and he could get up.

Just a few feet from him was the top half a poor boy in a man's uniform that had been too slow to take cover and had been hit by the explosive force of one of the mortars. His eyes were glassy, devoid of life and his entrailssank into the puddle of mud and ooze around his remains. He was already dead and Harlow assumed it was his blood that had splattered him in the face.

He growled in his throat, this was a damned stupid way to fight a war.

Desmond stood in the cramped train, it was even tighter than the holds of the troop ship even though there were slightly less people on the train than the ship thanks to tuberculosis, pneumonia, and some other nasty diseases spreading rampant through the decks. It got so bad on his ship that they had to quarantine part of the lower aft just so the others wouldn't catch anything.

"Any idea of where we're going?" Desmond asked to nobody in particular.

"Colonel said Uppers or something like that in Belgium." a doughboy replied.

"Ypres you airhead." another responded.

"Like I should care." the first replied, "All I know is that we're going to some trench to sit for a long while and get shot at." he said glumly.

"Hey, maybe there's a chance we'll see one of those new fangled tank things the government's been working on." another voice added.

"Yeah, those things are monsters." someone said as the train clattered down the tracks.

"Hey, you think the Germans have any of them?" someone asked as a silence swept through the men.

"If they do, ours are better." someone else added quickly.

"I bet they are, could probably take on a whole front if we wanted them to." another happy voice joined.

"Tanks," Desmond thought to himself, "invented by the Network and given to the Army."

"What do you think Des, think we'll see any tanks?" Arnold asked.

"I hope not, if we have tanks there then that means we're fighting some tough guys on the other side." Desmond said vaguely, Arnold would understand it as the Germans being tough while Desmond knew that tanks were made to protect hunters from the claws of werewolves and vampires.

"Guess you're right." Arnold said, "Well, I'm going to try to catch some sleep on this thing.".

"Good luck with that, you can only sit upright in this thing." Desmond complained.

"Beats walking though." Arnold said as he angled his helmet just right to block incoming beams of sunlight. Within hours everything would go dark, then later he would be in a trench trying to save his own neck and do his job.

Sitting in the observation slot of the allied trench on Paschendale ridge was not on the list of favorite places to be for Harlow. There was nothing to see out in the open expanses but yellow fog, grey sky and the ragged stumps of what used to be a forest. Harlow was told that from the skies the no man's land looked like swiss cheese; the entire field of dark brown completely dotted with large and small shell holes each filled with fetid and dirty water. Harlow had been here for a year and never had he seen so much water in one place...

It never stopped raining here, they were all perpetually wet and miserable. there had been more casualties from trench foot and rot than there had been for battle and that was saying something. The land had long since refused to absorb the water and now each depression in the landscape was a puddle or a pool or even a large pond. Harlow had seen heavily laden men drown in them before some of them were so deep.

"Think the huns will try again today?" Asked the other man occupying the slot, manning a lewis gun, and looking out at the enemy line through the very small window in the side of the trench.

"Does it matter?" Harlow said apathetically "If they do it'll just mean more bodies for both side and nothing else."

"You think the war will ever end?" The other man asked. Harlow had made a point of not learning his name.

"They'll run out of men and boys eventually." Harlow said darkly. a shell shrieked overhead and hit the land behind the trench somewhere, it reminded Harlow of the bombardment outside, the mortars had been coming on and off all day just like the rain to the point where he had completely forgotten the deadly hail as the constant noise had slowly become the norm.

The other man looked at Harlow with a crooked eyebrow. "You're a grim fellow yank, you know that?"

Harlow waved his hand dismissively "Ah, bite me cannuck." He said and shifted his rifle across his lap.

There was a silence for a few minutes that was only interrupted by the impact of shells on the landscape around them. Harlow was lost in his own world, as he often was, thinking about the next engagement, the next fight, the next kill...slowly he was revived by the sound of many bootfalls outside. As the numbers of boots increased he went to the slot's entrance and opened the plastic flap that covered it, outside in the main trench, lines of men with rifles at the ready moved back and forth. Harlow rabbed a passing ammo carrier and pulled him to the side.

"Whats going on?" The man, hardly old enough to shave, looked at him confusedly.

"Haven't you been listening sir? The bombardment's stopped, the officers are expecting an attack." The boy said and then moved on harlow looked about himself and heard men begin to yell orders back and forth down the trench. He craned into the slot quickly, grabbing his rifle.

"Eyes up, fun's about to begin." Harlow said to the machine gunner and exited the slot into the trench on the search for a place on the firing step. he had admittedly missed the end of the bombardment, it was a surprisingly easy thing to do when shells were as common as the rain.

And the wait began. This was the mind killer, the moments that stretched into years that came after the bombardment and before the assault. Each man was alone in that trench alone with the only company being their dreaded thoughts, the errieness was not lost on Harlow who felt a shudder in his spine that wasn't entirely from anticipation...

More dull thunks denoting the firing of more mortars...Harlow wondered what the germans were up to...
That was until a dark metal canister landed about fifty yards in front of the trench and ignited with a small hiss which released a wispy green yellow cloud...Harlow immediately went to the satchel attatched at his hip even as the shrill whistles blew and the officers yelled in fear:

"Gas! Gas! GAS!!!"

The entire trench scrambled for their protective gear, each man drilled in the method of carefully equipping the plastic devices to their face for protection. Even so, the men's hands shook with fear as the put them on under their helmets and the foggy gas spread so that in all directions one could not see scant feet in front of their face. Each man now resembled a bug eyed monster shaking in their places, clutching rifles and praying softly to their deities. A man beside Harlow suddenly began to cough even with his mask affixed. his gagging became louder and more horrendous and he began to panick as he realized his mask had a leak in it. He collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat as his lungs liquified and his throat filled with blood and foam. His friends screamed for a medic and shouted to god in denial because they knew that there was no way to help him. Harlow's hand found the pistol at his hip and it was only another two mments before it was cocked and ready to fire.

"Move." He said loudly enough to be heard even though his mask muffled his voice, reluctantly the soldiers stepped back and Harlow pulled the trigger and ended the soldier's suffering...

Silence again reigned in the trench until the officers ordered the men to fix bayonets. There was a sudden clatter of the soldiers affixing the blades to the ends of their rifles and then silence again. It was again broken by alien noise, this one was unfamiliar and disconcerting. A loud a pneumatic whoosing echoed in several places along the line but it was impossible to discern the origin of the noise through the gas. Slowly, dark shapes, just blobs in the haze appeared, they began to solidify as the hissing and noise became more prevalent. Harlow's eyes darted, what was that noise? He strained to remember if he'd heard a sound like it but failed to do so. Instead he kept his eyes on the figures in the mists which approached the line slowly. The men began aiming down their rifles, intent on destroying the intruders before they got close but then they were stopped by the explosion of sparks...

"What are they?" someon asked in the line but nobody dared answer him as if the mere sounds of their voices might attract unwanted attention.

Light...fire, they could see it through the yellow green mass, it extended like a broom from sticks that the figures held in their hands. The roars that followed their explosions gave them all the dread of dragons...

"Mother of God." Harlow heard a soldier next to him utter as the armored figured came within yards of the line. They too were masked, like emotionless bugs as they ambled forwards with their heavy tanks attatched to their backs. One looked right into Harlow's own mask and with a flick of its finger's the man let loose another roaring broom of fire...

Harlow could feel the heat of the liquid fire as it passed overhead. Others were not so lucky and had not trown themselves down, they were imolated from head to foot in broiling flames and burned alive as they ran screaming and fell on their faces. the terror swas so horrid that men all around dropped their weapons and ran away down the trenches even as the flamethrower troopers advanced to the lip of the trench. Harlow saw the bug eyed soldier for the second time only this time he was ready. As the man aimed his nozzle into the trench to finish off the defenders, Harlow lunged up with his rifle, skewering the man on the blade at the end. there was a yelp of surprise from the masked German who then tumbled into the trench as Harlow climbed out. his comrades were stunned at his bravery but he knew there would be at least two other soldiers escorting the flamethrower and he was right. Another German stepped back in surprsie at the sudden resistance and was too late to bring out his pistol as he was also skewered by Harlow's already bloodied blade. the last man, this one with a rifle lunged at Harlow who deftly batted the bayonet away with his own rifle and then followed with a crushing blow with the stock of his own weapon. The German folded up and wnet to the ground where Harlow again stuck his blade into German flesh. As he did so, gunshots and yells of officers desperately trying to rally their men echoed over the trench and it was all covered by the suddne blow of whistles and the war cries of men running out into no man's land from the opposite side.Harlow dove back into his trench as lines of figures with bayoneted rifles poured out of the clouds of gas and the machine guns and rifles opened up...

The train slowly screeched to a halt and shook any sleeping occupants awake and yawning could be heard as the car doors opened and let in light and the distant smell of gunpowder. The scenery was vastly different than what they had seen in the port, clean streets gave way to muddy paths and the tightly spaced buildings were replaced with fields sparsely dotted with trees. The air quality was even worse despite the smoke coming from the engines and boilers of the ships. Most of them found the Belgium countryside incredibly disappointing compared to what some of them had heard about Europe. Most blamed it on the war while others blamed the exaggeration of their grandparents who had emigrated from the very places they would be fighting in.

The mass of men slowly staggered off of the trains and into the waiting tents in order to get their orders. There seemed to be some confusion amongst the clerks in the tents as telegraphs beeped and clicked away, translations were written and passed among the tent dwellers. The doughboys looked at each other in wonder before a burly mustached man walked up to the lot and cleared his throat.

"Alright yanks, seems the Huns were spoilin' for a fight. We just received telegraphs from the front saying that they were being charged. You lot are going to move to provide support and help repel anything that comes their way."

The huddled mass of dull green uniforms began marching towards the frontline, the dark green and brown of the fields sucked at their shoes as they tried to lift their feet from the wet earth. It was almost as if the dirt itself was trying to pull them in and bury them in anticipation of what lay ahead. Desmond tried to remove those thoughts from his mind as the mass continued as one towards their potential death.

Great thumps echoed in the distance in the night air, like a rolling thunder crashing along the surface, but this was no weather pattern. Men across the Austrian line scattered as artillery shells smashed into their trenches. Men huddled under whatever cover they could find, trying to hide from the massive explosions that shook the air with such force that a mans insides would turn to jelly, even with out a shrapnel hit. Austrians, Hungarians and Czech soldier dug in for fifteen minutes as the devastation tore across their line like a reaping whirlwind.
Then as quickly as it had started the thumping sound faded away, and the arid smell of smoke, burnt flesh and the moans of the dying took its place. The respite was momentary, as men struggled from their holes in the cold wet earth, the sound of whistles, several whistles echoed in the distance. The British where coming.
Across the lines officers barked out orders to dazed and confused men, even grasping the odd one by the collar and thrusting them toward the trench wall, where the clambered up short ladders and onto ledges lifting up their rifles to take aim at their charging foe.

From his vantage point, crystal blue eyes gazed out across the battlefield. He'd been sitting in the arms of a tree for nearly three hours, some three hundred yards behind the trenches, on a gradual slope that lifted up from the bloody battlefield. Gazing through the scope on his rifle, he could see the advancing British line, the shelling had done superficial damage at best, once again a mad charge over the top would lead to naught. He watched as the Austrian lines opened fire, the chatter of machine guns and hundreds of individual cracks from rifles along the line. He almost smiled, his hearing that astute that he could pick out each individual shot as it rang out.

Nero spotted a British Officer, a lieutenant trying to hold his troops together. Nero lifted the rifle and squeezed the trigger, the officer fell, and his line broke in disarray. He followed the retreat for a few moments, squeezing off another round, another victim, then he paused. On the edge of the British lines he could see them, not many but enough, four, maybe five creatures of wolf blood. The rumours where true, it was not only the Vampires who had put themselves into the chaos of this War. Nero pondered on if he should take a shot as he watched them moving across the distant battle line. He paused, the scope trained on the head of one of the beasts, a kill shot.

"Are you certain you are eager to face them all if you pull that trigger my friend?"

Nero glanced down at Czech officer looking up at him, he gave a half smile at the sight of Damek, one of one three Vampires in the regiment, also the highest ranked, a Major. He checked the scope, the weres where gone.

"Do you really think they would have been able to pinpoint my shot?"

Damek's dark brown eyes gazed out across the pock marked battlefield and shrugged.

"Would you have really been willing to find out."

Nero pondered briefly on the question, before looking back at the Kindred below him.

"What does Viktor want?"

Damek grinned.

"You doubt I would come down here to have a chat without an actual directive by Lord Miklós?"

Lord Miklós was a Hungarian Vampire, who was co-coordinating all of the Kindred on the Germanic side. Nero wasn't convinced he trusted him, but as long as he was running the show, Nero was not going to challenge a Kindred of his age, directly and for no real reason. Nero just chuckled and swung himself down from the tree landing directly before the Major, his rifle on his shoulder.

"I know you wouldn't."

Damek nodded in agreement. "My dear ladies grow so bored if I am away for too long." The vampire almost drooled out the words, Nero had to stop himself rolling his eyes in blatant mockery.

Nero murmured 'idiot' under his breath as he walked over to the edge of the slope and stared down at their shattered lines, with the attack over, the troops where taking a brief chance to clear the dead, and find five minutes of quiet.

"So?" Nero stated, keeping his eye on the scene below him.

There is a Vampire on the other side of the battlefield, who seems to be causing problems for our Vampire allies in the German lines to the north. A skilled sniper it would seem, much like yourself."

Nero keep his eyes on the men as they lifted up a body from the muck.

"He wants me to kill him?"

"Of course."

Nero nodded, more to himself than anyone else, then took a step towards the front lines. He paused, glancing briefly back before he left.

"Do we have a name?"

Damek nodded slowly.

"Giles Branderford."

Nero sighed, allowing himself an almost sardonic smile as he headed towards the front lines.

"Now it would just have to be him" he thought eyeing the distant battle line with a weary gaze.


OOC -

Player - MDS
Name - Nero
Type - Vampire (Brutii)
Physical - 6'0" muscular Male, looks Roman, black hair, ruddy skin
Archtype - Sniper
Gear - 7.92 mm Mauser Gewehr 98 (with optical sight) Roth-Steyr1907 pistol,
Background - An ancient Vampire, discovering the new world by experiencing it first hand, from the Holy Roman Empire, the region that will one day be known as the Czech Repbulic.

Desmond's squad had been moved to the front to act as point for the rest of the reinforcing platoon. The skies themselves painted the grown in a darker hue as rain began to pour upon the hapless souls marching towards their glory, their doom, possibly even their own damnation. Huge rain drops, heavy with water, patted on the broad helmets of the men in asymmetrical rhythms before caressing the brims and falling again towards their end.

Desmond braved a glance up, his face quickly became slick with moisture as he noticed the limitless, rolling gray clouds that felt it necessary to bless the world with its bounty.

"feth off." Desmond muttered to the sky as he wiped his face with a wet sleeve. The practice was futile, his face as wet as it was before and he vowed to never take a bath for the rest of his life.

"Soon we'll all grow gills and fins." Arnold said, barely audible over the voice of mother nature, "But at least the wind isn't blowing."

"Well, the sooner we get to the trenches the sooner we get to bunkers and hopefully some fires." Desmond said with a quick raising of his eyebrows.

A figure appeared out of the far away fog and mist, tall and imposing. Desmond put his arm out and halted the rest of the squad, "Hey, get down real quick. Keep your weapons ready.". The men kneeled into the mud and readied their weapon, the already uncomfortable situation was exacerbated by the new filth seeping through the cloth of their uniforms. Desmond narrowed his eyes on the figure and tilted his head to better aim, allowing the rain to kiss the base of his neck and trace down the contours of his back to be absorbed by the collar of his uniform. The profile of the figure became clearer as it got closer and it soon became apparent that it was a courier, the mist made everything look gray but he doubted that a German courier could make it past the British lines let alone have a reason to make the journey. Desmond signaled for the squad to stand back up and heard the men groan as they struggled out of the muck and continued walking in the direction of the courier. The brown of the courier's uniform and the shiny, hazelnut coat of the mare he was riding soon bled back into the two as they got closer along with the courier's features.

"Are you the yanks heading towards the front?" the courier asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes sir." Desmond said, noting the age of the courier who seemed to be in his late thirties or early forties, he felt odd for some reason he couldn't fathom.

"Bloody..." the courier said as he looked at the kid in front of him, "well a report from the front, gas has been used so you'll need your masks on. Where's the rest of your lot?"

"Almost a mile back." Desmond said as he nodded to his rear, "Rain makes it hard to see 'em but they're there sir.".

"Right then, you continue going and I'll relay the message to the rest of your men." the courier said before kicking into the horse's side, "Get a move on now, you're not too far off.".

"You heard the man, get your masks on." Desmond said and worked on putting his own on. He couldn't believe marching in this thing and soon enough the moisture on his face and the edges of the mask began to agitate him immediately.

.........

"Holy gak." Desmond said to himself as the air surrounding them began to turn to a yellowish color. His muffled voice drew the attention of the rest of the squad and they looked around, confused. His men lit up when he looked at them through the lenses of his mask and it had taken some time to get used to. They kept moving forward and could hear shouting and screaming along with the sound of gunfire. Desmond swallowed before leading them towards the din and noticed that Arnold has frozen in place. "Let's go Arnold, there's a war to fight."

"No Des, this is, we can't do anything to help right?" Arnold tried to rationalize, "We should wait for the others."

"Arnold we can't just let people die, who knows what we could do." Desmond said as he grabbed him by the arm, "Now move it, let's go, faster now."

The group of five trotted to the lines, their breathing restrained by the masks, their vision clouded by thicker gas, and their ears assaulted with louder noises. "I can't do this Des." Arnold shouted and began to run in the opposite direction.

"Arnold, dammit Arnold!" Des said as he watched his friend run off. He looked at the remaining guys in his squad, "Let him go guys, he'll run into the others and they'll take care of him, now let's go find what's supposed to be the command bunker."

An errant round sent them sprawling to the ground before they reached the trenches and everyone looked the same to Desmond. The damned lenses would show him what was human and what wasn't, but all humans looked the same to him. He cursed the trade off and watched as the others began shooting across the trench, reloading uneasily in the process. "Why aren't you firing Des?" one of them asked, he thought it was Bernie but couldn't tell.

"Can't see anything, lenses are fogged up." Desmond lied, he decided to try his luck and fired at anything that was standing higher than the others. He could see what direction they were facing and guessed that anything looking his way was the enemy. His first time engaging the enemy was flat on his stomach in the mud, firing and hoping his luck would prevent him from hitting anything friendly.

Chaos, chaos was a good word to describe what had happened in the trench. The fighting had quickly devolved into some ugly hand to hand and men had fought to the death with their hands around another's throat in the mud and water. That had been only about an hour ago, the survivors were few though the defending Canadians had beaten off the Germans. An officer had come down the line shouting that a new unit was being brought up from the rear and that Harlow's was to move along the flank and regroup with another unit further along the trench.

The other unit, Harlow saw when they got there, had not fared much better. A wind had come up earlier and now the gas clouds had moved on, that was the only reprieve, the men were permitted to take their masks off. He saw blank eyed shock in many young faces even as the never ending rain continued to patter on their helmets. Even as Harlow stood, leaning on the firing step he could smell something. It was a very scant scent, just on the edge of his perception but it was familiar enough to alert him. At first he just looked around to the depressing trench around him but saw none of the movement he associated with that scent and so he took a walk down the line, following his nose until the scent seemed to waft out into no man's land. He sat there not sure what to do for a few minutes until he finally decided that he'd better go looking for the source of the scent, one he could smell even over the warm blood and noxious fumes, for his own sake rather than anyone else's. He waited until he was sure none of the exhausted men were watching and climbed out into the beaten and hole strewn earth.

His walk took him over hills and arround rows of barbed wire. It took him past ruined buildings and through deep gouges. He followed the scent until it got stronger and finally he reached an area where he could neither see one side's trench or the other. And then he saw it; a ragged and barren tree sticking up out of the destroyed ground. Its limbs were bare and crooked. But he wasn't interested in the tree, it was what lay beyond it that he could smell. There was a field, many bodies were strewn about it both allied and axis. None of them stirred, all were stone dead just mere feet from each other. It was a slaughter, at least two hundred men laid here where he could see and who knew how many more could be found beyond his sight over the hill? But that wasn't what had his attention either. It was the figure that sat amongst these piles of dead that Harlow was concerned with as the scent came from him. The man wore a German uniform and was doing something to one of the bodies. As he approached, Harlow pulled out one of his pistols and began to prepare it but stopped suddenly as the sound of feet hitting the mud behind him came to his ears.

"Ah ah now." A voice said in a thick accent behind him. "Not too fast, there's no need for that right now."

Harlow turned to see another German standing before him with a mauser pistol pointed in his direction. He assumed the German had been hiding near or in the tree. The two's eyes met and Harlow's suspicions were confirmed as he took in his next breath.

"What are you two doing out here?" He asked, seeing as the German wasn't shooting him at the moment. "Looking for lootables I suppose."

The German shrugged. "Nothing so shallow, I and my friend Hans here were just looking for a decent meal."

"Plenty of those to be found around these parts!" The other German called from his spot near the body. Harlow was impassive, he knew he had smelled wolf out here some where.

"You're welcome to join us if you want." the German with the pistol said. He laughed. "Take your pick."

Harlow was about to answer when he heard a small whipping noise followed by a gurgle and then a soft sizzling. He looked behind him to see the German who had been busy near the body was now slumped over and had an arrow shafte sticking out of his throat. The other German cursed loudly in his own language and then turned to run but was met with two similar arows to the back and toppled. All the while, Harlow had taken cover in a nearby hole and refused to peek over the lip, listening for the slightest sound outside of his spot. He soon heard lowered voices and the squishes of boots in the muck near his hole where the shots had come from. All was silent again for a moment and then another accented voice rang out.

"Come out little doggy dog, if you make me find you, you will not like what we do to you." It said with malice and arrogance. Against his better judgement, Harlow climbed from his spot, and as he had guessed, the attackers knew exactly where he was because the were looking right at him as he rose.

Harlow looked at the two fallen Germans and couldn't help but feel angered. "You hunters are all the same aren't you?" He called to the four men in German uniforms who were grouped not twenty feet from him. "You don't even think about the fact that you're killing you're own countrymen, not even in a fething war!" Harlow didn't know why he was saying it but he refused to just die silently.

The Germans just laughed. "Hunters? I suppose you could call us that but we only hunt who our masters tell us to and that is usually your kind." The big German in front called. A cigarette was pursed in his lips and a machine gun strapped around his shoulder. Harlow wasn't certain what he meant by that remark but he didn't much care, a sudden noise had come to his ears, high pitched and far away, it was the same sound that had signalled the attack on the trench earlier. He put a hand on his knife holstered at his side near his pistol. He smiled even as the big German cocked the machine gun and aimed it at him. He frowned.

"What do you have to smile about beast?" He called.

"Oh nothing, I just remembered the name of a song I'd forgotten." Harlow replied. The German began to say something even as the first shell screamed in and hit the earth before he could move. On of the four was obliterated instantly with the blast, he just ceased to be in a geyser of mud and earth. The other two behind the leader scrambled for cover and the last was starteld enough to overbalance with his heavy gun and fall over. Harlow took his chance and leaped on the fallen German seeking to gut him with his silver knife. But no sooner had he bounded forward than the German retaliated with a club which had many gleaming silver spikes sticking out of it.Harlow backed away just in time to miss the blow mostly though the spikes scratched his arm and burned his flesh. He winced and growled but stood holding his arm for a moment.

The German stood there with a grin on his face as he held the mace aloft in one hand, the gun now forgotten. "Come doggy..." He said. "I won't hurt that much." He laughed. Shells rained down near and around them but to turn and try to find cover meant leaving oneself open to attack from the other and so the two circled each other there even as thunder boomed around them and made yet more holes in the already taxed dirt. Finally, the German lunged forwards and tackled Harlow. The two went into the mud, rolling end over end trying to get an advantage over the other. Harlow could smell the dead corpse smell of the man and felt the inhuman strength in his limbs, this was no hunter but it could not be kindred as those creatures were much less about brawn. As Harlow threw two hooks into the man's jaw he was sure he was fighting a ghoul.

Finally it seemed that Harlow would plunge his blade into the weakened German, but at the last second the German got his boot under Harlow and sent him over his head with a kick and into a deep shell hole Harlow tumbled. Even as he struggled to get up, the German stood and aimed a pistol at him, panting and bleeding from the nose and mouth from the fight. Harlow lay in the hole also bloody, looking his death in the face yet again.
"Its been fun, doggy." the German said and pulled the hammer of the gun back with his thumb, with the same grin as before. "But all things must come to an end." He was again interrupted just as he was about to pull the trigger by a gunshot which hit the German in the side, gouging a bloody crater in his torso, the impact nearly causing him to fall over. The German cursed loudly and turned to run, holding his wounded side, leaving Harlow dumbfounded as bootfalls fell all around him.

"Alright lads, get these bodies cleaned up and dig in here!" An officer called as he looked at a map and compass in his hands.

"Hey, I found a survivor." One of the men called as he peered down into Harlow's hole. Harlow was relieved to see the same uniform and helmet he wore himself on the man and accepted his hand to get up out of it. "You're bloody lucky, nobody else but you lived through that one." The man said. Harlow glared at him, picked up his helmet and weapons and growled.

"I know, I was there." He said sarcastically and made to move off from the field even as more and more fresh troopers fell in around him.

One of the soldiers clearing the bodies found the two Germans with arrows stuck in them and called his buddies over to examine the sight. One wrenched one of the arrows free and saw the shining silver tip even through the matted blood caked on it.

"What do you make of this sarge?" The soldier asked his superior.

"No bloody clue. Oi mate, whaddya--" The sergeant said, turning to find the survivor they had found but not seeing him anywhere through the fog, he shrugged and dropped the arrow in the muck.

"Just put it in the pile with the rest of em." The Canadian said. "If we stop to look at all the strange things in this war we'll never be done with it."

"Is it over?" Victor asked from his prone position.

"I don't see the gas anymore," Bernie replied in his thick mid-western accent, "and they're taking their masks off." he said indicating the men in the trench.

"Thank god." Desmond thought to himself as he removed the insufferable mask, he quickly took it in his hands and cracked one of the lenses. "Hey I need a new lens in this thing." he said innocently. The people around him turned back into their non-shiny selves and he could see Bernie digging through one of his pouches and produce a spare lens.

"That just happen or what?" Bernie asked as he handed Desmond the lens. Desmond took it and began fixing the broken lens in his own mask.

"Just now i guess, don't know why... maybe I hit it on a rock or something while setting it down." Desmond replied with a chuckle, "Lucky it didn't happen earlier I guess.".

The four men sat there with mud covering their uniform in a sick brown that slopped off in excessively splattered areas. Desmond finished replacing the lens, it would sacrifice having the full effect of the enchanted lens, but then he would be able to see the world as it was and clear up his aim the next time he had to wear the infernal thing. "Well that's that." Desmond said as he stood up, the rest of the squad joined him and looked into the trenches. Men rushed back and forth, clearing the dead and repairing what little they could. Duck board was replaced and the sloshing of muddy water mixed with blood, excrement, and other vital fluids caused the unholy concoction to continuously release its pungent odor. Nevertheless Desmond climbed down into the trench and grabbed one of the closest men by the should, "Excuse me." he said in English to the man who jumped.

"Good lord, thought you were one of the Jerrys," the man replied in a Canadian accent, "More yanks then?"

"More, what do you mean by..." Desmond said before shrugging it off thinking that the rest of the regiment had probably arrived by then, "where's your command?"

"Oh, need to report I guess." the Canadian replied, "Over there, it should be mostly alright."

"Okay, thanks." Desmond said as he shouldered his weapon. "Come on guys, we need to report in before we're called AWOL.".

They walked through the trench, and although they were covered in mud they looked around and felt sorry for the lot that had just been through hell. They stared at them with sunken in eyes and faces covered in all matters of filth, some of them were so covered in mud that they could probably grow grass on their faces instead of facial hair. Desmond was out of place, relatively fresh and new to all of this fighting compared to these men who had been fighting for days if not months already. The entrance to the command bunker wasn't much better than the rest of the trenches, strewn maps and papers littered tables and dim lights were scattered around to give some semblance of day to the inside of the cramped room. "Hello, we're here to report for duty." Desmond said to the many adjutants and officers busy replacing everything and writing out reports to send out to command. After waiting for five minutes Desmond finally asked, "Someone going to let us report?".

An annoyed man with a small, groomed mustache approached them, "Okay, your names and regiment then."

"Desmond Bruss, Bernie Holmes, Victor Lopez, and Joseph Jacobson from the US 69th Infantry regiment." Desmond said with a salute.

"Okay fine, you're all reported, now where's the rest of your regiment?" the man asked as he jotted down their names and regiment.

"I thought they were already here." Desmond said, "We were the advanced group though, they were about a mile behind us so they should be here soon."

"Alright, you lost your regiment." the man said thoughtfully as he stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, "We'll have you four go to the front and begin working on digging new trenches, when the rest of your regiment gets here we'll go ahead and return you to them." he said before returning to his work of reorganizing the shelter.

"Who do report to up there sir?" Desmond asked.

"Whoever has the highest rank and isn't dead." the Brit said with a huff, "You yanks still here?".

Desmond and the others shrugged as they began walking towards the front, they had no idea where the network of trenches went and it didn't seem like anybody was in the mood to tell them either. Eventually they found their way to the front lines, it took them ten or so minutes after getting lost in various bunks and being told to "feth off" by several others. It was a terrible cluster feth of people digging and hammering boards into walls of dirt.

"Hey look, its actually dry under the topsoil." a canuck yelled.

"I don't believe it, nothing's dry around here..." another responded and looked to see four dirty Americans just standing in the trench and looking lost. He shook his head and walked up to them. "Lost?"

"Is this the front?" Desmond asked.

"Look around you, this is all the front the only place that isn't the front is back overseas." he said, handing Desmond a mallet. "Take this and start hammering boards in.".

"You heard him, I guess we'll just do what they're doing for now." Desmond said and they began to copy the others.
.....................

Am I allowed to join this? Hi by the way.

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Oh thank goodness, was starting to worry about you ghosty. I wish would just stop by the say hey though.

You yet live? Welcome back to the land of the unliving. Feel free to join.

A shrill shrieking broke the relative calm, followed ominously seconds later with a sudden, and horrific rumble, as the Mortar Shell slammed into the mud, erupting in a blast of shrapnel, clods of dirt, and regrettably, limbs. A thin rain of liquefied mud and flesh rained down in the immediate area, followed by almost complete silence; save for one disheveled crow, an ugly mass of black feathers, cawing in anticipation for the feast to come. Thirty feet away from the impact site of the lone Mortar round, Sergeant Jim Turner tentatively wiped some of the muck from his eyes, his face gaunt and sallow, and cautiously turned his head toward the crater. It had been Miller; at least, that was what he could discern. He could see the rest of his lads splayed out across a 200 metre line of trench system, maintaining the calm stillness that they had learnt kept them alive, giving no cause for a German scout, or Sniper to believe them to be anything other than a corpse. In affirmation to his thought, Jim started to pick out bits of Miller amongst the drab greyness of the landscape, splashes of red abstract against the mud. A ragged lump of flesh, which he presumed to be the torso, was lying in a puddle not ten metres from his position, and a leg, mangled by the blast, caught amongst the sea of barbed wire before them. Risking a sigh, Jim, settled back into a niche his body had wrought into the mud wall of the trench system. It had been abandoned when they found it; and had almost been completely reclaimed by the landscape, and as such, it was little more than a rutt in the landscape, offering little comfort, and even less protection. The knack for survival in them was to keep your head down, and hope the enemy didn’t know you occupied it. Settled back down, Jim thought back to how he had come to find himself in the trench.

He had been part of a dawn attack, coming up over the trench with hundreds of other men of the United Kingdom. It had been hellish, men were dying, everywhere. He saw a soldier stumble just ahead of him and come to a stop. As Jim had pelted past him, his brief glance in his direction showed the soldier to be trying to pick up from amidst the mud part of his own face, which was lying in tatters. Another soldier was on his knees, crawling forwards, crying like a baby, tears streaming from his face, seconds before a machine gun round punched through his steel helmet, as if it had been made of foil. They had about a hundred metres into No Mans land, Jim leading his ragtag group of soldiers, barrelling forwards, ignoring the whistled of bullets, and the cacophony of the dying, when things had gone from bad to worse. A wall of Green gas billowed forwards from the Enemy trenches that had been only a hundred or so metres from the rapidly dwindling line of British.

“GAS! Quick boys!”

The line faltered, as men stopped their sprint to fumble desperately for their masks. For many, they weren’t fast enough, their hands dull and slow from the cold, and through the thick glass panes of his own mask, Jim saw soldiers swallowed up in the cloud of death; stagger and flail about, as if awash in lime, their eyes rolling obscenely, spittle forming at the corners of their mouth, before finally falling, twitching to the ground. And all the while, bullets whipped through the air. Jim did what only he could in the situation; he rallied his men, and charged. If he fled, he would be shot, and if he stayed standing in the gas, he would still be shot. But then something caught his eye, looming out of the fog like some grotesque being from hell, more terrible than Mephistopheles’ true form. It was surely some nightmarish vision, not truly real. Thick green light had obstructed all vision, and he could barely see, through the fog, the enemy line. The cloying tendrils of gas had also muffled the sound of the massacre around him, with the fallen drowning in the gas, their strangled cries falling away to silence. And there, standing amidst the death, was a human-thing. It was tall and thin, long gangled limbs with talons, long and ebon. Its ribcage was jutting out from under it’s papery flesh, and the abdomen was sucked in, hugging against the spinal cord, and the pelvis. It was like a skeleton, a walking skeleton. Its features strayed from human when Jim saw the face. It’s head was like a skull, following the emaciated features that the rest of the things body complied too, it’s eyes sunken far into the sockets, and its lips drawn back over it’s jaw line, revealing a mouldering mass of grey rotten teeth, save for two, long, black, canines. It’s nose was curious however, it was flat and stretched across the face, like that of some great bat, and its ears, far elongated than those of a human, stretched back far away from the misshapen head.
Jim Blinked, and looked again. The creature was still there, standing unphased amidst the green fog, the Chlorine having no imminent effect. He stumbled to a stop, his lads behind doing the same, staring with horror and morbid curiosity equal, as the creature stepped forward, on long, thin, and curiously elegant legs. A smudge of red blossomed on its torso as a bullet punched through, and the thing didn’t even seem to notice. A second, followed by a third bullet followed the first, and yet the skeleton didn’t seem to notice. A break in the fog revealed the firer, the leader of the charge, an unknown Captain, all bryl cream and boot polish. He was standing tiny compared to his adversary, a pistol wavering in his hand. The creature was towering above, and spread its skeletal arms, spreading his fingers wide. Jim didn’t spend another moment waiting to see what happened next; he turned, and ran, his men following hot on his heels, in no particular direction. A truly horrifying scream pierced the muffled silence behind them, and he shivered involuntarily. He had found the remains of the French trench just as the fog had begun to lift, and ducked into the cover. They had planned to stay here until they had calmed down enough to find their way back to the trenches, until one of the sharper eyes lads spotted, less than 200 metres from their position, nestled within the scarred landscape, a machine gun bunker. They were pinned down, even if the German force were unaware. Which brought him back to the present.

Name: Scar, goes by the name of Charles Ravenwood as a human.

Affiliation: Pureblood Werewolf

Age: Estimated 700 years old

Description: Scar over right eye, wears an eyepatch in human form.

Backstory: Scar does not remember much of his childhood. He was born into a small pack of Werewolves, who terrorized thier local village. One day though he does remember what was called "the cleansing". A new man appeared in thier town, and he killed each of his kin slowly and painfully. Constantly talking about "purifying in the name of the Lord". He and one other adult survived, and he only escaped with a scar that will haunt his face forever.
The adult took care of him, watched over him, and guided him. Onde day he was also cleansed.

He wandered around constantly, running wild and rabid, killing all who he saw, but he never forgot the one who murdered his pack. The "Hunter". He vowed he would kill all who seeked harm to his kind, and that he would destroy the Hunters order.

But right now, he has awoken chained to a wall, with an unfamiliar face around him, and a burning rage in his heart.

War has broken out, and he will play a part.

Equipment: Nothing but the clothes on his- oh, wait...

Personality: Bloodthirsty, rabid,

As the group of Americans gradually worked their way down the trench line, they noticed it was rather silent amongst their allies. Nobody really spoke, all that could be heard besides the sounds of entrenching tools hitting the dirt and mallets nailing obards into the trench walls was the distant thump of mortars and the far away chatter of machine guns. Finally, Desmond broke the silence with some small talk.

"So, do you cannucks have an NCO or what?"

There was a silence in the trench for a few moments before a Canadian private finally spoke up.

"Sarge got hit in the scrap further down the line, he's back in the field hospital waitin for a ship home, lucky bastard."

"That lucky bastard lost his leg." Another Canadian said from further down.

"Well at least he's put of this bloody cesspool!" The first Canadian answered back. Yet another Canadian rolled his eyes and got back on topic, answering Desmond.

"That would make our NCO..." He paused for a moment as if trying to remember the chain of command. "The yank?" He asked looking to another of his comrades for confirmation and geting a nod.

"A yank?" Desmond asked. "You mean like an American? Like us?"

The Canadian nodded. "A real character that one..." He paused again, looking around. "Say where is that spanker anyway?"

"Right where you'd expect him to be." Called another voice from above the trench lip. The soldiers all looked up to see Harlow stepping down into the trench, covered in more mud than usual.

"And just where have you been?" one Canadian asked.

"Scouting..." Harlow said plainly. "Making sure Jerry doesn't nail your ass to a wall while you're sleeping."

"Ah, you're just in time to welcome our new friends." The Canadian said. "Yank, meet the yank." He said with no sense of irony and went back to shoveling dirt.

Harlow met the gaze of the American soldiers who looked at him a bit offput as if an american in a Canadian uniform was the strangest thing in the world.

"Well? What are you lot staring at?" Harlow asked them. "You'd better dig those holes deep unless you want a bullet in those empty heads of yours."

And so the troopers went back to digging, Harlow passed a few of the Americans as he went down the trench. He stopped in front of Desmond and handed him a pair of field glasses.

"You're on watch duty, get up to the firing step and make sure the huns don't try anything funny." He said simply as he walked down the trench. "I'll be back in a minute, I've got to report to the Lieutenant."

Desmond shrugged as Harlow walked off towards the rear of the trench. He looked at the field glasses before putting them up to his eyes to examine the battlefield, his vision was blurry and murky thanks to the dirty lenses on the opposite end of the device. He muttered to himself as he began to wipe it with his sleeve unaware of the mud and dirt he was now streaking across the lens.

"Damn," he swore silently to himself and looked around for something clean to wipe the lenses with.

"Yank, the battlefield's that way." one of the laboring Canadian's joked.

"Thing's dirty and I need something to wipe it with." Desmond said continuing his search.

One of the Canadian's soon became irritated with the fact that nobody was standing watch, "Give me those damn things." he snapped as he snatched the field glasses from Desmond's hand. The Canadian spit onto the lens and wiped them with a mostly clean spot on his uniform, satisfied with his work he thrust it back into Desmond's hands. 'Now get on the fething step and watch for anything coming our way." he almost shouted while pointing towards the step. "Damn yank is going to get us killed." the Canadian grunted as he returned to his work.

"Making friends, huh, Des?" Bernie chuckled as Desmond took his place on the step.

"Shut up." Desmond said as he put the field glasses back to his face, the sight before him was still brown and murky but now it was because the field before him was brown and murky. Looking across no man's land he could barely make out the German line and no Germans running about or charging the line. In fact it was incredibly boring and Desmond found himself scanning the line from left to the right, stopping if he managed to glance at anything remotely interesting lying in the middle of the craters. Every so often a mortar would throw up dirt into the air, one of them hit behind the German trench and shortly after Desmond saw a small hand raise above the trench's top to give them the finger. A slight moment of entertainment for Desmond wasn't enough to make him stay focused on that little area of the battlefield. His wandering vision picked up views of the dead and dying, several bodies hung twisted in the barbed wire several meters away, contorted in painful ways. Body parts and missing pieces of flesh lay in puddles of blood that soaked into the already wet world. Desmond had to wonder when the ground would stop soaking in all of the liquids that lay on top of it, imagining the Earth as a sponge that would eventually be saturated.

All was quiet for the moment, the steady thumping of mortars and hammers made a soft lullaby that drummed in the air above them.

"See any movement?" Victor asked, startling Desmond.

"Nothing yet." Desmond continued to look through the field glasses.

"Hey, what do you think about that one guy, the American?" Victor whispered.

"Don't know, what should I be thinking?" Des asked in equal volume.

"Well, why is an American all the way out here and with the Canadians when we've just entered this war?" Victor said.

"Maybe he lived in Canada before the war." Desmond replied, "Kind of like asking why a Mexican is in the US Army."

"So you think he's an immigrant or something?" Victor mused for a few seconds, "Makes sense I guess.".

"What were you thinking?" Desmond asked, the German line was still motionless.

"Maybe he was a spy or something." Victor said, "Never now how it works with wars."

"Doesn't seem like a spy to me," Desmond said, "you would think that he would be with all of the officers if he was a spy, getting information." Desmond was quiet for a moment, "Besides, if he was an American spy wouldn't he be on the other side of this field?"

"What if he's a German spy?" Victor suggested.

"Doesn't sound like it, sounds like he's from Oklahoma or wherever cowboys are from, if he was a German it would be more guttural."Desmond said with a sigh.

"You know what Germans sound like?" Victor asked.

"Yeah, a family of them lived down the street from us." Desmond said, "I think they left the city after their shop was ransacked soon after the war started.".

"Oh well, I brought you a canteen." Victor said, his questions and suspicions satisfied, "Better get back to work before the Canucks start complaining again.".

"Well thanks." Desmond said as Victor slunk back towards his work.

Desmond was sure of his own conclusions, that's all there was to it. The guy had emigrated to Canada and then enlisted there and that was all there was to that story. It would make a good story if he was a spy, but that was just it, it would be a story and not the truth. Still, Victor's slight paranoia had been fun to listen to. Desmond continued to stare out into the wastes and at macabre view in front of him.
...................


"Half of the regiment is missing and we have no idea what the hell happened to them." Colonel Beuregard reported to the Lieutenant in front of him.

"Colonel, masses of men do not simply just disappear." the Lieutenant replied tiredly.

"We don't know what happened to them, it was like they were just swallowed up by the ground below them." the Colonel tried to get the man in front of him to believe him.

"Are you telling me that you think the ground just decided to snack on some doughboys?" another man shook his head in disbelief. "I'm going to have to report you for this, where's your commanding officer?"

"Gone, I'm telling you the truth, none of us heard anything or saw them go away. There weren't even any bodies for us to carry." the colonel said exasperatedly.

"I've had enough of your tall tales colonel, take your men to the front to relieve some of the men there. This is your last order you'll receive as a colonel and I'll see to it that you are punished for gross negligence of your men."

"But I'm telling you..." Beauregard tried to say.

"What don't you understand about orders?" the lieutenant asked angrily, "Take your men to the front now and no more talk from you about disappearing men or of the ground eating people.".

Colonel Beauregard walked out of the bunker upset with the fact that no one believed them about the rest of the regiment just disappearing and worried due to the fact that half of his regiment had just disappeared. He talked amongst his men and walked them towards the forward trench, fear already settling on their hearts because of their march.

Well? Can I join? Is it alright?

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WARORK93 wrote:

Shas'ui T'au Kais wrote:Well? Can I join? Is it alright?

(I'm sure it is Kais, Mordo seems to take a bit to get roused though... )

Well, he is a Walrus, they don't do much beside be insidious GMs hellbent on murdering the family of every character in the game in front of those character's eyes before torturing them to death.

WARORK93 wrote:

Shas'ui T'au Kais wrote:Well? Can I join? Is it alright?

(I'm sure it is Kais, Mordo seems to take a bit to get roused though... )

By the way good to see you again, aint been on dakka in some time...

This appears to be dead...

Feel free to jump in!

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I know that, its just before everything was so fast paced, since I have returned everything apears to be slow and shambling...

... but oh well, I may do an Rp, just need to get into the WW1 mindset, which is quite lucky as I just finished the course in History...

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I still wonder about Fitzz, any news from him on the Penthouse forum?

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