A pale dawn bled through the thick canopy, casting an eerie light on the motley crew of Blackwood soldiers huddled beneath the trees. The air vibrated with a nervous energy, a stark contrast to the unnatural stillness that lay beyond the treeline. Their target – the city of Blighte. A sprawling expanse of gothic architecture, its spires claw at the lightning sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the blighted landscape. The stench of decay hung heavy, a sickly-sweet perfume masking the horrors that lurked within. This was one of many vampire territories, a branch that promises a showcase of vampire greed and cruelty.
Viktor Duval, his aging face etched with scars of a life spent hunting and fighting the darkness that is vampires, surveyed his troops. A ragtag band, their eyes held a mix of fear and steely resolve. They were armed with little more than faith and vervain-laced weapons, a meager defense against the creatures of the night.
