A collab between Bloodrose and [@Lightning Fast] [center] [img]https://preview.redd.it/4hl0qgz5xqb31.jpg?auto=webp&s=1e3aec6445f345cb6ca9066ec58b864861662422[/img] [/center] Mihail watched as the flames crackled about the pile of burning leaves and twigs he’d piled on the ground. As they burned, the smoke wafting off of the pile contorted itself into odd and terrifying figures, horrors brought forth from the newly-minted hunter’s subconsciousness. This was not the first time he had watched the wisps of smoke weave prophecy before him, but he was only just beginning to understand the truths they held. Most of the creatures he saw were not conventional vampires. While images of the Kindered did appear to him in the smoke, many were crooked and warped, their bodies broken and remade into something far more demonic. Most of the smoky entities were instead nightmarish beings which swallowed up human and kindred alike, writhing with superfluous appendages, tentacles, and tongues. Rather than fear, Mihail felt pity and disgust, that the merciful and just thing to do was to purge these creatures from the Earth. That bloodlust was a new feeling for Mihail. After hitting his growth spurt, he’d learned that he needed to be calm to avoid driving people away. This had changed since his Awakening. He knew now why the Hunt consumed so many of its weaker-willed participants, and he thanked the Lord above that he’d soon have a mentor to guide him through it. Someone who understood the bizarre, divinely-inspired urge to kill. Out of curiosity, Mihail stuck his bare hand directly in the flames. He did not burn, and it was not painful; it felt as one’s bare skin might when standing in particularly harsh sunlight. “I guess it’s good there’s one less thing that can kill me now,” he muttered to himself. The park was quiet at this time of day, and his tracksuit and sunglasses would hopefully conceal his identity to all but the most avid sports fans. Were one to describe the vehicle of a ferocious crusader, they probably wouldn’t picture a battered old minibus with “Wollstonecraft High School” painted in faded letters across one side, but that is exactly what came rolling over to Mihail, letting out a series of mechanical coughs and sputters that were reminiscent of an elderly smoker with a sore throat. “Yo yo! Count Blockula!” Trix cheered enthusiastically out of an open window, clapping her muscular hands together in a juvenile display of excitement, whilst she beamed at Mihail. Mihail, for his part, did his best to hide his displeasure at the nickname, giving the fan a smile before extinguishing the fire with his boot. The bus halted with a sluggish groan, and Gertrude Aschefeld came sweeping down from her perch on the driver’s seat, shooting a respectful nod at Mister Dobrescu. “Best to strike during the day, and to move in sheep’s clothing,” Mrs Aschefeled explained, “I’ve signed the students out under the pretense of a school trip for the Parapsychology Society. We can drive the beast from of the old monastery together, and force Satan’s minion to boil beneath the gaze of the Lord.” The gentle hint of a smile flashed across Gertrude’s lips. “Sorry about Miss Schechter,” she laughed, “the children are still a little starstruck.” Mihail couldn’t help but smile back. Despite the macabre nature of the Hunt, everyone seemed to be in good spirits. “So long as it does not distract from the task at hand. If anyone asks, you are a friend of my mother and I have come as a guest chaperone. If anything, them being fans makes the cover story stronger.” As he took a seat in the back of the van, he lifted his gym bag up onto his lap and pulled out a heap of purple and gold mesh fabric. Jerseys, it looked like; one for each student, all bearing his number 45. “Sorry I did not know your sizes. I can sign them for you, if you want.” Mihail didn’t much care for the glitz and glamour of the LA lifestyle; he much preferred to meet fans in a less chaotic and public setting. A roar of delight exploded throughout the bus, as the teenagers let their approval be known. “Frickin’-A!” Trix whooped, “my girlfriend is gonna be so fuckin’ jealous!” Even Dexter, the least sporty of the whole group, seemed to be genuinely excited by the prospect of a signed jersey from Mihail. “That's really decent of you, Mister Blockula,” Umar beamed, “we really appreciate your generosity.” “It is no trouble!” Mihail proclaimed. “But please, call me Mihail.” Gertrude sat behind the wheel of the minibus, guiding the grumbling mechanical monstrosity down roads and up hills, with the familiar proficiency of a teacher who had led her fair share of school trips before. The chugs and startles seemed to roll over Mrs Aschefeled like water off of a duck’s back, even though the bus sounded as though it were one light knock away from exploding. “Our quarry is cursed to bare the corruption of its wicked soul upon its flesh, so it's grown to become a master of shadows and stealth,” the hunter called back to her passengers, “it has made its home in the old monastery like a tick burrowing into flesh, and it will have become familiar with those once sacred halls. My plan is to do all we can to push it outside, where we can easily destroy it under the light of the sun.” “Just point us in the right direction, Miss A,” Trix grinned, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt, “we’ll give that bloodsucker the burial it's long overdue.” About a quarter of an hour later, the bus came to a clanging stop, amidst a stretch of jagged grey rock, and bumpy ground. From amidst the morass of mud and knife-like stone, the lopsided carcass of the old monastery rose up to clutch at the sunny sky above. Crumbling towers looked like the fingers of a withered leper, and the abbey’s cracked brickwork had been blackened by the searing touch of fire, reducing the monastery to a charred skeleton of its former glory. “Here we are,” Gertrude solemnly declared, “steel yourselves. God is with us.” [i]If only God could slay these vampires himself.[/i] Mihail exited the vehicle, bringing his now-lightened gym bag with him. He had purchased a machete at a hardware store, though hoped he wouldn’t need to use it. After meeting Eva and their encounter with the spider-like abomination, Mihail was feeling confident in his pyromancy. He was far less confident in his combat ability--though having Aschefeled here made him less... terrified. After all, any encounter with a vampire was one which could potentially end in his death, and having an expert on hand would make everyone safer. “I would not expect a bloodsucker to hide in a church,” Mihail mused, “nor do I understand why it has been left to decay for so long.” [hr] From atop a crooked spire, Henri Broussard gazed down upon the gathered cluster of hunters, shielding himself in the umbrellar of darkness that the old stone tower provided. The precautionary measures which the Samedi had taken alerted Henri to the hunter’s arrival as soon as they began working their way up the hill upon which the monastery was perched, and he had used those precious minutes to begin readying his defenses. Henri let out a necrotic cackle, peeking down the scope of his old springfield sniperrifle. His rot-ravaged eyes fixed upon one of the teenaged hunters, and a twisted grin spread across the decayed remnants of his lips. “Au revoir.” the Samedi let out a burst of vicious laughter, as he pulled the trigger. [hr] The gunshot cut through the day like a crack of thunder, booming with the terrible force of a dragon’s roar. “Get down!” Gertude yelled, rolling into place behind a mountainous blade of dark rock, which burst up out of the sodden ground. A burble of dark red seeped out of Dexter’s mouth, dribbling down the front of his chequered shirt. “M-miss Asche…feld…” he managed to stammer, before he toppled over, landing in a bloody heap on the ground. “Dex!” Umar cried out, his voice cracking with palpable anguish. “GET DOWN!” Gertude repeated. Diving forward, Trix tackled Umar into cover, narrowly avoiding the crack of another gunshot, which whizzed into the earth where the boy had stood, mere moments ago. Suddenly, a deafening quake came tearing through the ground, and gaping, ravenous fissures were ripped into being. Rock and earth exploded like fireworks on the Fourth of July, heralding the sight of bony, blight-infested figures, which came scrabbling up out of the crevices, clawing scratching and clawing as they rose out of the depths of rumbling earth. Three corpse-men, clad in the tattered remnants of the clothes which they had worn in life, let out feral, inhuman screeches, and began bolting towards the hunters, their hungry jaws snapping and snarling with the savagery of rabid hounds. “Oh, fuck me!” Trix gasped, gazing on in terror. Gerturde muttered a quiet prayer, before unsheathing her broadsword, imbued with a tooth of the venerated Saint Lucy, and charging towards the putrid monsters. Narrowly escaping another bark of rifle fire, Miss Achefeled unleashed a furious swing with her blade, which crashed through the air, and sliced in twain the waist of one of the screeching zombies. “For Stacy Hershlag!” Gerturde roared, her voice ringing with the terrible power of true, steadfast faith, “for Dexter LaTierri!” The sword came down in a righteous thunderclap, smashing through the head of the felled zombie, and reducing it to necrotic powder. “And for all the other lives you’ve stolen!” Gerturde Aschefeled shouted with the fervor of a holy berserker, filled by divine rage. The middle-aged woman fixed her enraged sight upon the tower that the snipe shot had come from, and raised her sword on high, like the holy knights of days of yore. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall know no fear, and give no quarter!” Gertrude exclaimed furiously, “the Lord is with me, and I [i]SHALL! NOT! FALTER![/i]” Mihail couldn’t very well hide with his massive frame. The best he could do was ducking behind a dead tree which barely concealed his head and torso. Reaching into his gym bag, he pulled out... a standard machete, made of ordinary, non-magical steel. It would have to do. The hunter focused, channeling his fiery vengeance into the weapon in his hand. [i]For Dexter...[/i] On cue, flames wrapped around his hand, dancing along the side of the machete as it was imbued with fiery purpose. In one swift motion, Mihail hurled his machete at one of the zombies. It flew in an unerring straight line, embedding itself in the creature’s collarbone. From there, the supernatural fire spread rapidly, burning it from the inside out until it ceased all movement and collapsed to the ground in a charred heap. Leaping from his hiding spot, Mihail dashed across the field, narrowly avoiding rifle fire as he bent down to grab his weapon once more. He made sure to swerve so that he would be harder to hit, moving with a speed that was unnatural for a man of his size as the smoke from the fire thickened around him, moving alongside him to obscure him from view. [i]The Hunt has made me faster. Stronger.[/i] A bullet whizzed by his head, missing it by mere inches. An arrow whizzed fiercely through the air, fired from the end of the crossbow which Umar gripped with fury-filled conviction. The arrow exploded through the skull of the final shambling zombie, bursting its eye, and flying out of the back of its head in a pop of grizzly matter. “Into the monastery!” Gertrude cried out, like an ancient general rallying an army of warriors, “press the attack!” [hr] Henri was less than pleased with how things were unfolding. “Fuckin’ hunters don’t know when to run away,” he grumbled, “[i]Merde![/i]” Retreating back into the darkness, the Samedi scrabbled his way down a stretch of burnt and craggy brickwork, until her had scurried down from his perch in the tower, and landed within the heart of the ruined monastery. Casting obfuscate, Henri vanished from sight, just as the attackers came charging into the building. Slinging his springfield rifle onto his back, Henri unsheathed his machete, and slowly began to pace towards the towering figure that had been able to conjure up supernatural fire. “[i]Enculé de ta mere![/i]” Henri hissed, as he crept towards his target, “I’m going to gut you like a fucking fish!” [hr] Mihail’s initial reply was not with words, but with a burning orb of flame. “The only thing you are going to do is [i]die[/i], child-killer.” The basketball-sized blaze flew through the air as Mihail assumed a battle stance, focusing in on the undead creature. “What kind of idiot gives up the element of surprise so easily?” The monster hissed, shattering the illusion of obfuscate, and leaping through the air like a lion tearing down upon a gazelle. An explosion of french curses came trailing out of the vampire’s necrotic maw, as it took a wild swing at Mihail, wielding its machete with feral brutality. “SHIT!” Mihail barely managed to avoid the attack by lurching backwards, nearly falling over. “You cannot cease what is in motion!” it roared, “I’ve come too far to be stopped by the likes of you, bâtard!” Mihail gazed into the creature’s eyes as flames began to coalesce around his left hand. The fire spread across his own machete, and with the blade now wreathed in flame, he lunged forth in a cloud of smoke and ash. As he came at the bloodsucker, his footwork and form with the blade were poor, but backed by holy fervor and holy fire. “I’ll make sure you STAY dead this time, [i]nenorocitul![/i]” He lunged forward, his movements untrained and sloppy, yet having overwhelming force. The blade soared through the air, catching the stumbling Samedi straight in the chest. Steel, wreathed in holy flame, plunged into the vampire, exploding in a storm of necrotic flesh and searing fire. Henri let out an agonised shriek, hissing flames surging through his rotten carcass, and swallowing him up in a hungry conflagration. The beast tried to make a mad lunge at Mihail, mere seconds before Gertrude’s longsword came swooping down upon him, slicing his putrid head clean off of his shoulders. “When you return to Satan, tell him that the righteous still walk this earth.” the hunter declared, as Henri Broussard crumbled into charred ash.