Night was soon approaching, as was the hour at which Magnus had planned his attack. The scent of fear would be easily recognizable to any vampire, as each of the many sentries scoured the treeline for signs of the vampire army. Each of them infected reality with their own fears, twisting each shadow into a silent stalker, each sound into the rustle of footsteps, each flicker a red glowing eye. Guns were held at the ready, but the safety remained on, if it had not been shots would have been fired already, as many of these men had yet to see true action of such a scale. In fact, such a massive conflict between man and undead was almost unheard of. These men, who cherished the short time they had left to them, had good reason to fear.

And as they watched, the shadows stirred, and the gras rustled upwards. Slowly rose dark shapes, long streaks of fog rushing over the ground, rising out of the gras like a long forgotten spirit. Moving at a speed that would startle any who knew little of fog, the spirit rapidly enveloped the base, slithers of grey clinging onto every shape, leaving it's damp fingerprints on every surface. With every breath, the cold damp filled the lungs of those waiting and watching, the truth further obscured from them, lost in a mist formed solely by their imagination. And, to those who had been sent to watch, to those who truly felt the fear hammering at their hearts in that moment, they could see the faces of demons rush by them. They felt the ice-cold hand of a vampire caress the base of their neck, the eyes of a predator assessing the value of their blood. The chill that touched them was not from the cold, but from a primal fear that filled every living being capable of such an emotion.

For there were faces in the fog. And the faces watched, and they laughed, and they smiled. The faces spoke of stories long past, all meaning stripped away by the endless march of time. The whispers were pleasant, and welcoming, as each smiling face invited them. Quiet cooing and wooing, like a mother holding out her hand to guide a particularly dim witted child, the reassurance of a parent washing over those who had moments before beheld the fog with such frightful expectations.

One by one, the lights went out, and the faces still smiled. They cheered and chuckled, and hugged and played, and boisteriously told of events long past. It was so easy, to simply let go, to simply admit the correctness of one's elders. To accept the guiding hand offered. Smiling, each moth wandered willingly into the fire, laughing as they were consumed from within by the darkness of their own fear.

One by one, the lights went out. And all communication with the outer sentries was broken.

The scent of fear was in the air, indeed, and now it was augmented. The slight scent of copper moved among the silent buildings, carried by faint chuckles and sneers, and whispers in the fog. Blood had been spilled, and it would not be the first.

A smiling figure moved among the shadows, and they crawled to him. His eyes were bright, a silent red glow escaping from under the red brim of the top hat he had chosen to wear. Hands gloved in human flesh rearanged an elegant suit, the red fabric a product of great art, the life's work of a madman. The tail coats of the jacket he wore moved in time with the walk, almost inhumanly long legs striding, as the thin tall figure strode forward. And yet, even as this ghastly apparition moved through the perimeter that had only moments ago been under heavy guard, the elegant black shoes made no sound on the wet grass, the fog around him obscuring the details of his appearance. Behind him, crying softly to themselves, faces smiled in the fog, whispering of events not long past. For it had been but moments ago, that the faces had possessed bodies. And they had been able to stop smiling.

The Lord of Vampire had come, and his escort had joined him. Tonight, more blood would be spilled, as the faces of the damned laughed, and chuckled, and boisteriously told of events long past.