Archibald Bain-The Keep
The initial explosion that shook the castle pulled the ancient vampire Archibald Domitius Bain slowly from his vast armchair. With the reverberations still shaking their way up through his Berluti wingtip clad feet, Bain stalked his way slowly to a large armoire beside the four post bed. Flinging the heavy, hand-crafted wooden door open, he reached inside to withdraw a sword of a gleaming meticulous quality.
Even in the low light however, as Bain withdrew the weapon from its scabbard, the scrupulous care that had been bestowed upon the blade was offset by the hard use apparent in the deep nicks and dings upon the cutting edge. The sword traced its history to the first crusade of 1095, and Bain had been using to draw the blood of his enemies ever since. For the briefest of moments the vampire regarded the cold steel in his hands, and resolved that this night, this sword would be bathed in red.
With his mind hardened for combat, Bain marched from his room, and into the long hallway that connected Hoyle’s own room to his own, and the great room beyond. Hoyle, massive and grey in his lupine form, was just making his way out of his door. The two old friends met at the junction of the hallway that led out to the great room.
Hoyle spoke first, his mouth spitting out guttural words that Bain easily understood. “The Lupus Naturae, it has to be. We should…”
The werewolf’s words were cut off by a tremendous crash from the great room, followed quickly by the feral war cry of Victoria Blasko.
Bain and Hoyle’s eyes met, and in that instant, the vampire saw fear, outrage, and realization reflected in the amber irises of his most treasured friend in the whole of the world.
“The tooth!” Hoyle bellowed, “Aislinn has the tooth!”
With that, Hoyle charged out into the great room, and Bain was hot upon his heels. With his first glimpse of the destruction and chaos now enveloping the great room, Bain knew that the safety of the castle was now secondary to getting Aislinn Hoyle, along with the tooth of Fenris, as far away from here as possible. Hoyle’s recognition of the situation was spot on: the Lupus Naturae was here, and they were after more than just blood.
As Hoyle lumbered over to his sister, who had been knocked down by the torrent of falling glass, Bain skirted around the great room towards where the wight, Veti, Henry, the sorcerer, and a fae he did not recognize, had gathered. He carried his sword low, and his movements were fluid and quick. His dark eyes scanned about the room, his other senses reaching out for the source of the attack upon the keep. When his heightened eyesight and keen ears discovered nothing but the reverberating booms of explosions and death from the front gate, Bain’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Guard yourselves,” Bain said flatly to those in the great room. “We must get to the shade gates.”
Draveous-The Front Gates
Draveous, the Dragonkin leader of Bain & Hoyle Castle’s security forces, stood atop the battlements above the front gate resplendent in heavy plate. His reptilian features were set in an expression of keen awareness and fiery odium as he scanned the army of werewolves now swarming across the Thames. Around him, the rainbow of creatures that made up his command rushed about to their battle stations, already engaging the suicidal wolves as they rushed against the walls like dusty black waves.
They would not take this castle. Of that Draveous vowed with every ounce of his being. Though vastly outnumbered, the castle itself was not without its own surprises.
A nearby explosion forced the Dragonkin to take cover behind the battlement. He looked up in time to see the gaping hole that remained in the wall just thirty feet from where he knelt, as well as the burning bodies of those who had been manning that portion of the defenses. Their dying forms were covered in dancing flames that continued to consume them until nothing remained but ash. Draveous cursed. Even in spite of his conviction, he had to admit that if they did not act quickly, the day would be lost.
As he knelt, Draveous grasped the weapon that had been sitting at his feet. The matte black tool of death was cool and heavy to the touch, but the weight was no concern of the Dragonkin’s. With a mighty heave, Draveous lifted the M134 Minigun to his hip, and directed the six-barreled machine gun towards the onslaught of werewolves. From its upper receiver trailed a belt of ammunition, gleaming bright silver, which snaked up to a massive drum upon his back.
A snarl lifted Draveous’ lip, just as his clawed finger depressed the trigger. The barrels of the gun began to spin, slowly at first, and then rapidly, until at last a stream of fiery hot silver spat out like the breath of the Dragonkin’s forebears.
Wolves fell, buckled, shredded, and died beneath the withering rain of deadly precious metal. His focus, so singular was it upon his deadly task, that he didn’t notice the werewolf that clawed its way across the battlements towards him.
With the blaze of silver bullets still spewing forth, Draveous did feel an intense cold wash over him, and a tremendous howl of frigid wind drowned out even the roar of the minigun in his hands. So palpable was the cold that he released the trigger and turned.
Off to his left was the werewolf that had been approaching him. The creature was frozen to the stone of the wall, standing utterly still in a prison of blue. Draveous could make out that half of the werewolf’s body had been skinned to the bone, presumably by the icy wind that had passed over him just an instant ago.
Draveous turned to his right, and as he did he caught the eye of a demoness, bathed in icy splendor, and spouting a continuous stream of lethal unholy ice upon the attackers. For a brief moment he was transfixed by the demon, until with a triumphant snarl, Draveous raised the minigun in a battlefield salute, before he himself returned to his own death dealing.
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