[h1][color=red]Professor Oswald Denzil[/color][/h1]
November 9, 11:34 PM
Somewhere in Great Britain

Oswald trudged through the field, the sound of hounds a ways behind him. He can't believe they found him, again. Damn Silver Battalion. The rows of corn towered above him, concealing him from the moonlight. Oswald stumbles out of the field, his eyes falling on a small farmhouse. He runs to the window, looking around him wildly before peering in. He saw a quaint dining room, a candle breathing it's last on the table. He creeps around the side of the house, spotting an old barn, a dark forest behind it. He glances back at the corn field, the sound of baying hounds getting gradually closer. Oswald sighs and jogs to barn, spying into it cautiously. It was mostly empty save for an ancient mirror propped up against the back wall. Slowly makes his way towards the mirror, he gasps at what is looking back at him. A hairy, graying, gaunt man in tattered clothes is looking back at him. Dear God, he looks just like someone who would turn into a werewolf. Oswald's head snaps back to the barn door, the hounds getting closer. He races towards the entrance, exiting swiftly and taking off into the forest.

Trees fly past him as he sprints through the forest, leaves flying away in his wake. Stutters to a halt, panting, his hands on his knees. 

"Tired, are you?"

Oswald jumps back, his hand flying to a knife stashed in his trousers. A grizzled looking man in sliver armor steps out from the shadows, a hand casually resting on the hilt of an ornate long blade. "You have been running quite a lot lately, haven't you?" Oswald eyes him warily, he starts to slowly pull the knife out. The man's eyes flash and Oswald's hand is sliced open, the dagger flying away. Oswald yells and falls backward, clutching his now bleeding hand. The man sighs, the tip of his sword covered in Oswald's blood. "I am Commander Richard Boothman, of The Silver Battalion. But you most likely guessed my organization." Boothman sauntered around the downed professor, trailing the sword an inch away from his face. "I used to be a huge fan of your teachings in history, Professor. But that was before I knew, of course. Before I knew what you were."
Oswald glared at him, his mind working in overtime, trying to find a way out of this situation. Boothman shrugs, raising his long sword. "Oh well, it's been a long night, I think I'm going to finish this no-"

Boothman pauses, his eyes wide with shock. Blood erupts from he commander's mouth and he falls to his knees, slumping over on the ground. Dead. Oswald looks at the body with with surprise, then his head snaps up at the sound of movement. A man emerges from the darkness, a bow in hand. "Ello, you must be Oswald. I'm Henry, I'm here to take you to Voldoa."