• It's time once again to ferret out those murderous vampires in a new VAU - Vampires Amongst Us. A cross between Cluedo and a roleplay, sometimes gory and often hilarious! Find out more and sign-up! here.


Staff member
True Blood
Aug 4, 2010
Name: Bartram du Coudray (formally Bartram von Carstein)

Title: Lord-Governor of du Coudray Suggero (lands in the Border Princes, founded by Bartram)

Origin: du Coudray (Southern Parravon)

Age: 247

Sire: Malochai von Carstein

Current Location: The Great Ocean (part of Count Kraskor’s Bloodfang Order)

-Giselle du Coudray
-Orlando du Coudray
-Uriel du Coudray
-Launcelot du Coudray
-Angelique du Coudray
-Rosalind du Coudray
-Elijah du Coudray
-Viktor du Coudray
-Persephone du Coudray
-Albericht du Coudray
-Lysistra du Coudray
-Hans du Coudray

Appearance: Bartram is tall (about 5’ 11”) and holds himself proudly, and continually has an expression of superiority and disdain on his face, like many nobles from Bretonnia. Dark blonde hair reaches down to the top of his spine and hangs down over his left eye when not tended to. Due to rigorous training with a variety of weapons, he is strongly muscled. Whilst alive, he was considered handsome, and his face has (miraculously) little to show for his life of fighting in the way of scars. However, his eyes are ice-blue, and hold wisdom.
His armour, crafted for him and blessed by a damsel of the Lady before he was cursed with undeath, consists of chainmail, full plate armour and all the other “paraphernalia” of a knights armour, along with a tabard, displaying his personal heraldy - a black pegasus rampant on a field of gules (red) and argent (silvery white) and a shield with the same heraldry on it.

Background: Bartram hails from Southern Parravon, and was the second son of Berte du Coudray, Castellan du Coudray. Always overshadowed by his brother who was the centre of his father’s attention, he trained harder and spent more time at his studies, yet always remained out of the limelight. When the Duke of Parravon sent out the call to war, Bartram was insistent that he be given leave to join his father’s knights, and eventually his wish was granted.
When the forces of Parravon clashed with the Undead Northerners, slaughter followed and the forces of Bretonnia were crushed. However, before they were defeated, a group of knights led by Bartram’s older brother, Tybalt, broke through the lines of undead and assaulted the vampiric heart of the army, Malochai von Carstein. Malochai laid waste to the formation, and ripped apart the bodies of all but Bartram, who showed such valour and skill in his sword-play and lance-work that he was spared the honour of death and was drawn into the undead ranks of vampirism.
Bartram then fled home, where his father disowned him for fleeing the field of battle. That night, he raged against his father and ended up slaughtering the entire household and the depleted contingent of knights in a bloody orgy that he feasted on. As a result, he fled to the Grey Mountains upon Abastor, his black pegasus mount, where he lived by slaughtering the small villages. On one of these occasions, Abastor was killed and whilst he grieved, Bartram felt something shift within him and he brought his mount back to life. Eventually, he found himself in Sylvania, at Lichenhof Tower, where Malochai resided, out of sight of Mannfred, and learnt the history of vampires. He then killed his sire and took up residence in Lichenhof Tower. Eventually, Mannfred found that Bartram was residing in his lands and sent a force to root him out. Fleeing this army, he returned to Bretonnia and stole his childhood sweetheart, Giselle, one of the king’s distant cousins, and swept her away and gave her the Blood Kiss. They then wandered around the Old World, gathering a large household of vampires to their sides until they settled in the Border Princes, establishing the du Coudray Suggero.

Views on the other bloodlines:

-Blood Dragons: Bartram has great respect for Blood Dragons, and considers himself more a Blood Dragon, child of Abhorash, than a von Carstein, descendant of Vashanesh.

-Lahmians: Intrigued by these shadowy females, he has had too few encounters with them to form an opinion, and those encounters he has had have been overseen by Giselle.

-Strigoi: He is disgusted by these monsters, who feast on the blood of dead bodies, and would go out of his way to kill them if he had the choice.

-Necrarch: Thinking that the best way to engage foes is through strength of arms, he despises the vampires who use magic to face their foes, and can only respects those who use it to raise armies.


Black Knight
Jan 19, 2011
Name: Alrik Gunnulf
AKA: Alaric Gounouf, Anton Volkov
Titles: The Wild Wolf, Seigneur du Sang, Volk Krovii
Sire: Adalhard
Age: 1,035
Associates: Balthazar (Master Necromancer), Abel Amarande (Vampire), Roslyn de Noire (Necromancer)
Origins: Alrik was born in 1487 I.C. in Olricstaad in southern Norsca, a port town of the Bjornlings. His father, Gunnar, was a skilled warrior, prosperous trader and advisor to the Jarl. Gunnar traded furs along the coast of Bretonnia, mostly in the province of Couronne. Through the course of trading Gunnar struck up a friendship with the Earl of Chantillon. To forge the friendship further Gunnar and the Earl arranged for the 8 year old Alrik to be shipped off to Bretonnia to stay with the Earl for 10 years and learn the art of Bretonnian war. Due to his norse physicality by the time he was 10 he could easily wield a two handed sword, by 14 he was taller than the other men in the household. Alrik was a fast learner and quickly grew to love the Bretonnian way of life. He became especially enamored of the knights and their code of honor. He emulated their behavior and speech. He trained with lance and shield and sword. Over the years he continued to grow both in body and skill. At 18 he stood head and shoulders above other men. Had he been in any other province there may have been a problem finding a horse large enough to accommodate Alrik but Couronne breeds the biggest and the best destriers in Bretonnia. A suitable mount was found, a giant of a horse, pure white in colour. The Earl presented it to Alrik on his 18th birthday. This also marked the end of Alrik’s stay with the Earl. He was due to return home. However, Alrik had fallen for the Earl’s daughter, a fair maiden of a similar age, during his time living in Chantillon. Knowing that she must marry a knight, Alrik sought out the best blacksmith in the city. He had a suit of armor crafted to his size. The breastplate was adorned with the fleur-de-lissymbol of Bretonnia, the helm was bare as he had not yet earned his heraldry. Suitably attired Alrik appealed to the Earl to allow him to begin the trials of knighthood instead of sending him home. The Earl laughed at Alrik, mistaking the boy’s earnest desire for a jest. Telling him that he could never be a knight as he was not a Bretonnian noble, the Earl dismissed Alrik and turned away. Alrik was enraged, his norse temper took over and he drew his sword, a massive blade which would require a normal man both hands to use, and smote down upon the unprotected back of the man who had denied him. With one blow the Earl, the man who had taken care of him, was shorn in two. Grief and remorse immediately flooded into Alrik’s soul. At the same time he felt fear enter his heart, fear of being caught, fear of being punished, fear of death. He fled the Earl’s chambers, took his horse and ran for the border.
Alrik’s flight from Bretonnia took him through the Wasteland into the Empire. From Marienburg he managed to get passage on a ship bound for Erengrad. In Kislev he allowed his grief to catch up with him and he wept for his crime. He resolved to use the skills he had learned in the Earl’s home to protect those who could not protect themselves, as a knight should. He shaved his head as a sign of atonement and changed his name to the more Kislevite Anton Volkov, meaning Anton of the Wolves as he had been declared wolfshead in Bretonnia. He travelled the countryside searching for wrongs to right. Alrik spent 5 years in Kislev as Anton and became known among poor villages as a defender of the weak. He spent his time fighting off local bandits, heavy handed tax collectors and marauding beastmen. The villagers nicknamed him Svyatoi Volk, the Holy Wolf, as they believed he had been sent by the gods. Alrik’s skills continued to grow as he forged them in battle. At the age of 24 he met his ultimate test. The town of Volksgrad on the eastern fringe of Kislev was plagued by a marauder waylaying travelers along the road through the forest leading to the Belyevobota pass. The stranger had taken the daughter of a rich boyar and slain those who had sought to rescue her. Stories said that the stranger had drained those would be rescuers of blood. Riding through the Dukhlys Forest Alrik was not surprised to find his way blocked by an armored figure. When ordered to release the girl the armored man laughed. He beckoned with a finger and a pale skinned young woman came to him through the trees. Still laughing he told Alrik to ask if the girl wanted to be saved. The girl turned and snarled at Alrik, revealing sharp fangs. Quick as lightning she leapt at him, hands extended like daemonic claws, as if to rend the flesh from his bones. She knocked Alrik from his horse before he had a chance to blink. But Alrik had been well trained. He rolled to his feet, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The new vampire was not expecting her prey to be ready for her next attack. As she leapt towards him once more Alrik anticipated her flight. He sidestepped her outstretched hands as his sword separated her head from her body. Turning to face the armored man he raised his sword in challenge. The stranger removed his helm, revealing a cruel, proud face. He appraised Alrik, then looked at the remains of his latest get. He warned Alrik that he did not have the skill to defeat him. Alrik was offered one chance to ride away. Meeting the stranger's gaze Alrik started towards him. Suddenly the stranger was there, right in front of him. Alrik had not seen him move yet he had. The stranger’s sword came at him, he barely managed to parry the blow. Another attack came, faster than Alrik had anticipated. He dropped to his knees and rolled aside, scrambling as fast as he could to get up. Spinning around he raised his sword to block the next attack. He parried and returned the stroke, aiming for the stranger’s head. His attack was blocked but the stranger did not follow through. Alrik attacked again and again and as he did Alrik began to feel like the stranger was toying with him. The corners of the man’s mouth were turned up in a small smile as he fended off Alrik’s attacks. Alrik’s norse temper flared and he attacked once more, full of rage, brute strength driving his blows rather than any particular style. Suddenly the man’s blade flicked out and Alrik was disarmed before he realized what had happened. Lashing out with his fists Alrik believed he could subdue the smaller man with his physical size. The stranger stopped Alrik's blow as if it were nothing. Alrik looked into the stranger's eyes and saw a terrible darkness reflected back. Suddenly Alrik realized he was about to die. He struggled against the stranger’s grip, feeling the awful fear of death come upon him once more. All his physical strength was for naught, the stranger was far more powerful than he. Unexpectedly the stranger released Alrik's arm and began to speak to him in Bretonnian. Alrik had surprised him by killing his latest creation. The boy had a measure of skill and the potential to be more if given the right training. He told Alrik that he was going to give him a gift. He took something from his belt and Alrik was astonished to see that it was a black grail. The stranger opened his mouth, revealing fangs sharper than any dagger. He bit into his wrist and held the bleeding wound to the cup, filling it with his own blood. When it was full he bent his head to Alrik's neck and bit deep. Alrik felt himself losing blood at an astonishing rate. Darkness overtook him and he drifted into unconsciousness.
Pain greater than any he had ever known ripped Alrik back from the edge of oblivion. He screamed, but the scream was bestial, not his own. Slowly the pain faded and Alrik got to his feet. He noticed that his armor had been stripped off. As he stood he realized there was a new power in his body. Strength unlike any he had previously known flowed through him. At the same time he felt a strange thirst begin to grow. Hearing a voice behind him Alrik spun with unnatural speed. The stranger was waiting for him. He told Alrik that he had gifted him with immortality, that he may spend eternity honing his fighting skills. And while Alrik might never be a knight of Bretonnia he could be a knight of the Ordo Draconis. The stranger urged Alrik to come with him, to learn from his millennia of experience. Horror at what he had become crept over Alrik. He shoved the stranger away with all his newfound might, turned, and fled into the forest. Over the next 50 years Alrik’s curse overcame him. The darkness within him, which he had tried for years to suppress, dominated his being. He gave in to his unnatural urges and preyed upon those he once protected. The Svyatoi Volk became known as Volk Krovii, the Wolf of Blood. Eventually he left Kislev and made his way to his home land of Norsca and began to terrorize the lands around Olricstaad. Stories abounded of a monster in the mountains, a daemon who fed on the living. Hunting parties were organized to destroy the beast but the blood fueled Alrik was the match of them all. He lived as a feral creature, matted hair, filthy body, his only desires to kill and to feed. It was in such a state that the stranger eventually found him. When Alrik recognized the man in front of him he immediately attacked. Roaring in anger he leapt upon the man determined to smash him to a pulp. Once more the stranger proved his better. Alrik was flung to the ground by powerful hands, finding himself unable to rise as the stranger pinned him in place. The stranger gazed at Alrik in disgust and berated him for wasting the gift he had been given. Yet it was not too late. He offered Alrik one more chance to learn from him, to master his base desires and become a warrior of unparalleled skill. The alternative was to be destroyed. Inside his blackened soul, Alrik’s pride clawed its way to the fore. He accepted the stranger’s offer. Together, they left Norsca and traveled the world, Alrik learning as much from the stranger as he could. He learned that the vampire’s name was Adalhard and that he was 3,000 years old. Adalhard had been born in what would become the Empire to a woman of the Unberogen tribe, the same tribe which had produced the man-god Sigmar. They studied fighting styles, methods of making war, logistics, strategy and much more. Adalhard also revealed to Alrik the dark magic of the world, the inherent ability they had to bend the winds to their command and utilize the black power of necromancy. After 10 years Adalhard determined that Alrik was worthy to be inducted officially into the Ordo Draconis. He returned Alrik’s armor to him, which he had taken all those years ago. As a newly knighted vampire Alrik was told of the order’s history. He learned the story of Abhorash, the ultimate warrior and pinnacle of what they should aspire to be. He learned of Wallach Harkon and the fall of Blood Keep. He learned that the knights of the Ordo Draconis were everywhere, learning all that they could to perfect themselves martially. He learned the secret methods of how to find his fellow knights should the need arise. He also learned how to control his hunger by focusing on his training and maintaining an iron grip on his soul. Adalhard told Alrik of the terrible fate that happens to a vampire who gives in to the thirst, of the monstrous beings known as varghulfs. Alrik would never know how close he had come to falling prey to such a fate. Alrik also developed his own budding vampiric powers. After 25 years of travelling together Adalhard announced that he was returning to his solitary wanderings. Alrik had made a good start on the path to perfection. Adalhard left him with instructions to put his training to good use as the next time they met Alrik would be tested. If Adalhard found him wanting he would destroy Alrik.
For almost 800 years Alrik wandered the world honing his abilities. He waged war in the Empire, Kislev, the Badlands, Tilea and Estalia. He travelled to the east visiting Ind, Nippon, Cathay and learning of their strange martial methods. He tested himself on the various races of the world, including other vampires, always learning from each encounter how to better himself. Yet no matter how much he improved Alrik still felt the sting he had suffered as a mortal when he had been denied knighthood by the Earl of Chantillon. He became obsessed with making the people of Bretonnia pay for that slight and returned once more to that land.
Close to nine centuries had passed since Alrik fled Bretonnia in shame but to him the land looked the same. Alrik brought with him a man by the name of Balthazar. Balthazar was a master necromancer who had been sworn to Alrik’s service for 50 years. His origins were unknown, he spoke with a strange accent and his skin was a metallic gold colour. Alrik sent him to infiltrate Chantillon. Posing as a court magician Balthazar wormed his way into the heart of the court. The Earl’s wife, a descendant of the original Earl slain by Alrik, was obsessed with maintaining her beauty. Balthazar promised her that he could help, secretly introducing her to dark rites involving blood and sacrifice. The lady gradually fell under his influence and embraced the path of necromancy in her quest for unending youth. Balthazar introduced her to Alrik and the two became lovers for she reminded him of the girl he had loved so long ago. The Earl’s champion, a knight by the name of Abel Amarande, discovered the affair and challenged Alrik to combat. The brave warrior was no match for Alrik’s cursed skills and was quickly overcome. Alrik was impressed with the man’s spirit and ability and turned him to vampirism. The Earl himself was sacrificed to the dark powers by his wife in a ritual to restore her beauty. The people of the city were told that he had died of disease. Slowly Alrik’s grip around Chantillon tightened. He was ruler of the city in all but name. The takeover had been carefully planned so as not to attract unwanted attention from the King. He used resources from the city to begin construction of a fortress high in the Pale Sisters. This would be his place of refuge should anything go amiss. The citadel was unassailable. It sat atop a peak 1,000 feet high with sheer rock faces on three sides. The entrance was via a steep incline which would never allow for battering rams. Alrik had no need to worry about keeping it supplied with food, it would be guarded by those who needed no such nourishment. He named the stronghold Taniere de Loup, The Wolf’s Lair. The building of the stronghold took 50 years. During that time rumours began to spread from Chantillon that all was not well. The old Earl's wife, Roslyn de Noire, had retired from public view due to "old age" but there were those who claimed they had seen her recently looking as young as when she was married. Taxes from the city all but dried up as Alrik diverted the resources he needed. Eventually suspicions were high enough that the King, in his role as Duke of Couronne, sent investigators to the city to verify the truth of the rumours. Alrik was in a bind. If he killed the investigators the King would know something was amiss. On the other hand he could not let them uncover the truth. Alrik knew the time had come to withdraw to his lair in the mountains. He gathered his followers and slipped out of the city. The investigators found only an empty bed chamber with no trace of the former lady of the city.
Alrik has bided his time for the last 100 years. Preying upon the local populace, he has been dubbed Signeur du Sang, the Lord of Blood. His plans to destroy Bretonnia are almost complete. Now is the time to strike. If he can complete his campaign successfully, Alrik will consider himself worthy to seek out Abhorash to earn his approval.
Other Bloodlines: Alrik maintains ties with other members of the vampiric Knighthood, the Ordo Draconis, known to most as the Blood Dragons. Once a century he meets with those with whom he has established relationships. Alrik detests the Strigoi for their lack of control and overt bestiality. Necrachs are considered dishonourable as they devote their time to the black arts instead of worthy martial pursuits. Von Carsteins and Lahmians have potential, provided they are mentally focused and martially capable, though Alrik has never made an alliance with any of their kind.
Appearance: Alrik is 7 feet 10 inches tall, heavily muscled, with a shaved head and face. He wears his archaic suit of armor, the same armor he had crafted when he was 18 years old. It still bears the fleur-de-lis on the breastplate. Alrik keeps it as a reminder of what he was denied so long ago. His helm is still unadorned. Alrik’s shield carries the sign of the Black Grail, the instrument used in his dark birth and a mockery of the holy image of the Lady of the Lake. He carries a massive sword that a strong man could barely lift and rides a gigantic nightmare, the remains of his once proud warhorse, reanimated and charged with magic.


Dec 16, 2011
North Carolina
Name: Markus Von Carstein
Origin: Middenheim
Age: 576
Sire: Hans Von Carstein
Current Location: Averland

Markus was sired by Hans Von Carstein when he took a visit to Middenheim for Vlad Von Carstein. Hans taught Markus a lot during his time with him. Markus learnt not to trust anyone including Vampires. This lesson he learnt watching the in fighting for rule over Sylvania once Vlad was killed. Hans sent Markus to Averland to began to grow his own army. He told him once he got control over Slyvania it would make for an easy path for him to take over the Empire. Do to his ties to Hans he did not help Konrad on his march against the Empire. He did not help Mannfred either. Becasue he left the Hans side at a young age in vampirism he did not learn much of necromancy but he did bring in some wizards of Azyr and he was taught magic from the lore of Heavens. He loved to expirement but did not really want to give the blood kiss to others for fear they would turn on him. He did give the blood kiss to some but chained them down in his basement to see what would happen to them over time.(Vargheist) After sometime on his own he began to long for some company. He could feel that there were those like him out there. He finally met a vampire name Emillia. She had been a vampire much longer the he and was an even better user of magic. She was a Lahamia and although he was told not to trust them he fell in love. They Slowly began to build an army not to gain any attention to themselves. He did not make any moves during the Storm of Chaos but now has gotten enough undead to make his move on the empire and the rest of the old world.

Markus Von Carstein
Talisman of Preservation
The other Trickster's Shard
Great Weapon
Aura of Dark Majesty
REd Fury
Feb 11, 2013
Name: Mahlek Von Horst
Origin: Talabecland
Age: Unknown; possibly ~3000 years old.
Sire: a Lahmian "Princess"
Current Location: Rumored to be somewhere in the Great Forest, Talabecland.

Infamous throughout the Central and Eastern Empire as the Flayer, towns and villages tremble in terror at the thought of Lord Mahlek appearing at their gates. He is believed to have been responsible for numerous towns and villages desecration's, and the infamous "City of Skins" incident.

Very little is known of this vampires origins, stories of his "exploits" dating back to the pre-Sigmar era. It is rumored he was the heir to a tribe based in the Talabecland area, who subjugated many of the surrounding tribes. The story goes that he was married to a "princess from the mountains," and on the night of their wedding she gave him the Blood Kiss against his will. She had gone the next morning, leaving him to vent out his fury on the people he once called his own before disappearing.

Mahlek is described as tall and fair in appearance, with a dark mane, pale complexion and piercing gaze. Those who have met him say he is incredibly cold and calculating, able to dominate anyone in the area with no effort. His eyes are said to blaze with red when infuriated, but this is debatable, as no-one has survived such an event.

In the year 1312, the city of Triery had a visitor. Tall and darkly handsome, but completely nonthreatening, he was turned away with a sneer by the night watch at the gates. At midnight a neighboring village heard the screams of thousands of people coming from Triery. Such was the intensity of the screaming, the villagers cowered in their hovels until first dawn, unable to sleep. The next day, Knights were dispatched to investigate. What they found was a ghost city, with all that remained of the 20,000 population being their skin, stretched over the buildings. Triery became known as the "City of Skins," to this day remains uninhabited by all bar the restless spirits of the city. Towns and villagers are now very wary of turning away strangers from their gates in the Great Forest area, lest they suffer the same fate for in-hospitality.

Mahlek Von Horst
Armour of Destiny + Shield
Sword of Might
Aura of Dark Majesty
Barded Nightmare

Get of W'soran

CN's Lord of Masks
True Blood
Apr 23, 2008
Behind the Throne
A Character I designed years ago for TVC and wrote many stories for but ended up never posting him online.
Again in TVC format cause I likes it.

Nicoletto Viggiani de Remas

Full Name: Nicoletto Viggiani
Associated Names: The Exile, The Sisterhood's Mistake, The Grinning Shadow.
Age: 654 years old
Bloodline: Lahmian - Exile
Sire: Lady Akela
Generation: 3rd Generation
Place of Birth: Tilea – The City of Remas

Physical Description
Nicoletto is lean and tall with dark ponytail, appearing to be in his late twenties. He is considered to be somewhat handsome in a way that his pale pallor and dark hair accentuate. He is found to be often grinning as if finding everything amusing.
The Tilean often wears bright, fanciful clothing along with capes but never jewelery that makes him look like a fop. At times he will wear a short cloak with his outfits. If necessary he'll wear more natural hues to blend in. He also has a fondness for hats.
He is rarely seen without his rapier and parrying dagger, both of Tilean design. He usually carries a single shot pistol too.

Nicoletto is...unfocused. He has, to the minds of many vampire's, wasted his immortality and shows little regret for it. He spends most of his existence simply following his whims. Witty, sarcastic and rarely serious he is often found to be either amusing or annoying by his peers. The vampire rarely even makes the pretence of being brave and will swiftly flee a dangerous situation to save his own skin.
Despite his light hearted attitude there appears to be a darker more cynical side to the vampire which he tries to keep hidden.

Brief History
Nicoletto was born over six centuries ago to a moderately wealthy noble family of Remas, a third son he knew he had little in the way of prospects and so he left and used his substantial finances to duel, drink and whore his way across first Tilea and then the Empire for many years. It was in the Imperial Capital that the young man met his unfortunate end. A pretty young girl he met at a cheap tavern and brought her back his rooms, it was there that she revealed her nature and killed him.
After awaking to his new unlife he learnt that the “pretty young girl” was infact a vampire and one of great age and power who belonged to an organisation of others of her blood. His sire, a Lady called Akela, admitted that the group she belonged to had been watching the young lord for sometime as a possible aid in their plans and promised him great wealth and power beyond his mortal imaginings.
Following Akela back to Remas Nicoletto murdered his family and assumed control of the Viggaiani and with his mistress's wealth and plots he soon became the dominant power in the city.
For the next 30 years Nicoletto played a reclusive nobleman and dictated policies and laws that would effect the entire political landscape of Tilea. Over this time he met a few of his sire's sisters but learnt little more than they were a group known as the sisterhood and that they stretched throughout the old world and possibly beyond.
In time Nicoletto “died” and his noble house was allowed to fall into ruin as were apart of Akela's orders although the vampire knew nothing of the purpose behind his three decades of work except that it was part of “The Queen's” greater plans.
After his mortal persona's death his Mother-in-death told him that he was no longer needed and that he would be best of to leave Tilea and never to return, he could live out his life somewhere else if he wished so long as he stayed out of the Sisterhood's way, warning him that their reach was long and their wrath terrible. That night he fled Tilea.

The next few centuries were, what many others of his kind consider, a complete waste. He has lived amongst humans, as he enjoys their company, wearing many different guises. He has been Mercenary Captain Ezio de Capro, Marozzo the Fencing instructor to one of the past Emperor's as well as several other fencing masters to less nobility as this played on his single most useful skill, he was also the famous criminal Giovanni and several foreign Lords but ultimately he must abandon these identities whether due to his unchanging form or simple boredom.
Due to his reckless attitude and fascination with humanity he has been chased more than once by the servants of Sigmar, sometimes only escaping due to sheer luck.

However Nicoletto's life has not been the utter aimless mess that it appears, he has had one underlying purpose which he has so far fulfilled admirably, at least in his opinion. The thwarting of all the sisters of his bloodline. The Tilean has murdered countless Lahmians and their servants, even covens have fallen due to him although usually such acts are completed thanks to his manipulations of mortals rather than direction action. The biggest accomplishment of these actions is that he has not been identified by the Sisterhood because even with this ambition he has played it slowed, only attacking when he's sure of victory and often assaulting low-level operatives such as their mortal servants.

The Lahmian has also went out of his way to forge relationships, for better or worst, with the various bloodlines. In the past he served as the Fencing Master for Karl's Barony, dueled the Baron ad his nephews Simon and Micrea in friendly bouts allowing him to meet those who would go on to forge the Triumvirate. It is whispered he had met Karl previously in Kislev where he assisted the son of Vlad with slaughtering the Lahmians there.
He robbed the tower of the Necrarch Lord known as V'azrin the Eternal with the help of his rival Nekhlior and he's had a few encounters with the Blood Knights to varying degrees of success from sometimes having a fun duel to almost getting slaughtered. He's almost been killed by a few Strigoi, a bloodline which terrifies him and of course the Lahmians.

Lately he has grown bored once more and desires the company of his own kind, hearing of the defeat of Nagash he has travelled to visit his old friends in Sylvania to find them the new rulers of a growing vampiric kingdom. During a Great Council meeting where all three of the Triumvirate where present he sauntered into Drakenhof, sneaking or lying his way past the guards before meeting Dieter who recognised him and let the Lahmian in. Seeing his old friends he greeted them jovially, stating that Karl looked well, asked jokingly if Simon's swordsmanship had improved and wondered aloud if Micrea ever smiled. Such an act would probably have went down poorly except for the Triumvirate's joy at seeing their old ally, aside from Micrea who had never had much time for the colourful duelist.

Basic Stats

Speed: 7 – A gift of his Blood.

Agility: 8 – Even in life Nicoletto was unusually swift, with his Lahmian heritage he has honed his speed to great heights.

Weapon Skill: 4 (8) - Nicoletto has specialised in Tilean Rapier schools of swordsmanship.

Ballistic Skill: 4 – A little better than most mortals

Raw Strength: 4 – Supernaturally strong but weaker than most vampire Lords.

Technique Strength: 5 (8) – Specialised in the use of the Tilean rapier and certain off-hand weapons. Has instructed mortal and immortal alike in it's use.

Tougness: 4 – Tougher than a mere mortal but doesn't wear proper armour.

Tactical Knowledge: 2 – Nicoletto has played at being General and read many of the great works of tactics. He studied much but learnt little.


Magical Lores Known: Necromancy

Raw Magical Power: 3 – A moderate amount of power to draw on.

Magical Skill: 1 – Nicoletto was taught some minor skills by his sire but has been unable to progress much over the years. He tends to go for more flash than substance in his spells.


Aside from weapon maintenance, very little.


A thin long blade with a swept hilt in the Tilean fashion
Nicoletto stole this rapier years ago from the Gold College in Altdorf, it later had it's enchantment strengthened by von Carstein Magi.

The blade is enchanted to even pierce plate armour, something that a mundane rapier is useless against.

Main Gauche
A simple parrying dagger.
A dagger carried to be used in conjunction with a rapier.

An ornate silver pistol. The vampire always carries additional powder and shot.
A basic pistol nothing more than mundane.

Light Chainmail
The barest of mail to be wore beneath one's shirt.
This hidden armour has saved Nicoletto's life numerous times but it only protects against lesser attacks.

Signet Ring
A ring which bears a flying falcon, the sigil of his now dead family.
A basic ring.

Other Abilities

Amongst The Prey
Nicoletto has spent centuries amongst humans and knows how to emulate their behaviour, even if that is as simple as remembering to blink and breath, things many older vampire's forget.
Nicoletto is used to living with mortals and is a good actor in this regard.

Tilean Fencing Master
Nicoletto is a master of the Tilean school of Rapier swordsmanship. He can fight with Rapier and dagger, cloak, buckler and when necessary a second sword.
Having trained since birth at this and the only thing he has never grown bored with the vampire is highly skilled in this area. This area of study has also trained Nicoletto in brawling as sword-fights can often lead to such. In gaming terms, using his tilean rapier style boosts his WS and TS to 8.

Feline Grace
Nicoletto describes himself as being quick like a cat and quiet like a shadow, he is more than proud of this. These skills have leant well to his role as an Assassin in the past.
Nicoletto has served more powerful undead as an assassin for centuries.

- Expert Swordsman -As long as he has a rapier that is, with similar weapons he can still put up a decent fight.
- SwiftThe Lahmian Blood and Fencing training makes the vampire extremely quick.
- ImproviserNicoletto is nothing if not imaginative, whether in combat or society he is quick to come up with solutions to his problems, often unusual and not always useful.
-QuietWhen required the Lahmian can be quite silent. This allowed him to find work as an assassin.
-DuelistNicoletto's skill with a blade shines in duels and urban environments.

- Somewhat Frail - Nicoletto does not have the usual Vampire Lord strength and endurance due to his bloodline.
-CowardNicoletto often declares that he is hero, he will swiftly retreat if he feels he is in too much danger, sometimes throwing away a chance at victory in the process.
-AimlessThe vampire has no true goals for his unlife and is easily distracted or confused about what he will do next.
-Boastful Nicoletto likes to brag but rarely likes to back up his talk. This can lead to trouble for the mouthy vampire.
-Wanderer He has no resources or allies to call on.
-No ScholarDespite his intelligence the vampire lacks the proper tutor, resources or focus to become a true mage.
-UnarmouredNicoletto refuses to wear anything more than the most meagre protection.
-No SoldierThe Lahmian's weapon of choice is not suited for war. Even after centuries of life he hasn't fought as a proper soldier preferring to hide behind his forces or fight dirty.
Last edited:

Micheal Valdros

Black Knight
Jun 30, 2014
New Lahmia
Name: Micheal Valdros
Title: The Bloodfather of the Bloodborn tribe/bloodline/thing
Origin: Indeterminate.
Age: Again, since this man the topic of a religion, his followers obscure details, making it nearly impossible to latch on to the whole truth.
Sire: None know who his TRUE sire was, though the myths of the bloodborn say it was Nagash himself that gave the gift. This is obviously propaganda, but it likely has some roots in truth (Most likely explanation would be a Lahmian vampire, since technically he DID give them the blood)
Current Location: The Bloodborn Tribe, The Border Princes. Currently patrolling with the Crusaders.
Associates: Aubry Valdros, his daughter, Ivan Valdros, his son, and Victoria Valdros, his wife.
Mentality: Vamprism is a gift, and only he may sire vampires of "Pure" blood. He wishes to root out the weak, to give the strong ascension and the rest the honor of serving him in death. His goal is to create a world where none can die, where the strong are not burdened by the minuscule. Regardless, he knows he can never forget that he too is bound by the chains of mortality, at least until the world is as he wishes.

Opinion on other bloodlines:
All others are of lesser blood, having lost potency over the generations. They are tolerated, and will have their place in this new world, but in the end they are still inferior.

.....reading it like that, we sound like freaking Nazis....


Black Knight
Aug 24, 2011
Name: Sammael Von Carstein
Title: The Reaver, Huscarl of Peridhoff Castle, The Soul Eater
Origin: An unnamed Hamlet, nominally part of the Empire.
Age: 38
Sire: Khayn Von Carstein
Current location: Castle Peridhoff, deep within Sylvannia's ghoul infested northern woods.
Known Associates: Morrith Schaide, Khayne Von Carstein


Born in one of the Empires most northern settlements, a small, nameless hamlet; Sammael's name means "light if the morning sun" in the rare and archaic language of the Empire's northern folk.

During his fifth year, Sammael's village was raided by marauders from the northern wastes, his parents were killed and his home burned down whilst he was taken as a slave. Growing up in the harsh environments of the slave pits, Sammael became tall, strong a ruthless. By the age of 15 he was one if the longest surviving slaves and gained a reputation of brutality in the blood games. Rallying his fellow slaves, Sammael led a revolt which saw him and a handful of other slaves successfully escape with a boat and supply if weapons and armour.

Eventually the band of former slaves reached the Empire, but far from seeking shelter or refuge, they became a group of bandits, highwaymen and marauders. Life in slavery had taught Sammael only that the strong prospered whilst the weak perished and that a man may only possess that which he takes by force.

Carving a bloody path through the Empire, Sammael gained the moniker "The Reaver" amongst the regions he pillaged in. Eventually the bandits reached the blighted land of Sylvannia where Sammael ordered a camp to be set in the northern woods. Seeing the downtrodden peasantry of the land fight a constant fight against the undead to survive bought them a small measure of respect from the Reaver.

Hiring out his band of warriors as mercenaries to protect surrounding villages from the ghouls and Zombies that plagued them, Samnael found that for the first time in his memory he may have found a home of sorts. Not all within his group agreed with this new direction, but they quickly found themselves cut down by their leader.

From the moment he had stepped into the northern woods, The Reaver had been watched by the paranoid and reclusive vampire Khayne Von Carstein. This unstable immortal had silently observed each of Sammael's victories and for a reason known only to himself, chose to act. Khayn entered the mercenary camp during the nightly feast and immediately fell upon them. Feeding upon some, slaughtering them all, the vampire saved Sammael til last but despite feeding on him, did not kill The Reaver.

When Sammael awoke he knew not how much time had passed, hours, days or weeks, but he felt a new strength in his limbs and a power in his unbeating heart. Navigating his way out of the crypts beneath Castle Peridhoff, the newborn vampire came accross his creator and attacked him for what he had done, Khayn merely used his ability as Samnaels maker to command his newborn to stop.

Whatever khayne's plans are they are kept locked inside his paranoid mind, but along with the necromancer Morrith Schaide, Sammael has become his masters captain, bodyguard and confidant of sorts. Though Sammael intensely resents his creator for damning him to an eternity of slavery, he enjoys his newfound immortal abilities and bides his time, waiting for the day he is strong enough and powerful enough to seize control of the castle and destroy his creator.

Current status: learning the ways of dark magic and leading the smaller armies of Khayn Von Carstein.

Personal view of other bloodlines:

Von Carstein: The only other vampire Sammael has met is his creator Khayn Von Carstein. Whilst he is aware of other Von Carsteins he thinks of them as fools who rot away in their castles being too bothered with aristocratic nonsense than taking power
Last edited:


Vampire Insomniac
Jan 19, 2014
Name: Kosach Wolikov
Title: The Black, Master of the Underkeep
Origin: Kislev, a small hamlet near Praag
Age: Unknown
Sire: Unknown
Current Location: Subterranean fortress-prison known as the Underkeep in the Badlands
Associates: Matthias Lightwielder, Lord Carmine of castle Dragonspire

Little is known about Kosach´s life before he came to the Badlands and founded the Underkeep. He is a Kislevite vampire of the Necrarch bloodline. Like so many of his bloodline he has devoted much of his unlife to the study of Dark Magic. What is known is that early in his career, in order to improve his magical ability he took to alchemical and surgical improvement of himself. This greatly improved his attunement to the Winds of Magic and turned his body into a nexus of Undead energies. His handiwork made him into a consummate Necromancer, able to raise the dead with but a flick of his fingers. It also turned him into a deadly opponent in combat, living things touched by Kosach wither within seconds and his body freakishly regenerates even the most horrific wounds.

However, such power comes at cost: his mind has been heavily damaged and he is prone to multiple psychoses. He is also incapable of maintaining memories for long which causes him to constantly forget the incantations to his spells. Ironically, his attunement to magic is such that he easily relearns them in a constant cycle of losing and regaining his skills.

This would be hopelessly frustrating for a saner individual but Kosach doesn´t have such perspective. He is content to study and improve upon himself eternally. Most of his days he spends locked away in his Fortress-prison with only his zombie minions for company.

Here he reads (and re-reads) his large collection of tomes, experiments with surgery and alchemy on himself and raises (and re-raises) his minions.

For the most part his actions are random and undirected as he constantly forgets his plans and formulates new ones. When he needs something he usually sends his minions out to fetch it for him and then promptly forgets about it. This leads to a growing pile of ingredients and trinkets in his laboratory, which eventually find their way in an altogether new experiment.

There is however one item in his possession which gives him some form of direction. Although he has long forgotten how he got it, he holds a Black Periapt which on occasion fills his mind with thoughts, stirring him to focused action and causing him to travel the surface in search of individuals whom he captures and brings to his lair, imprisoning them there although he doesn´t know exactly why. Neither does he understand why most of these individuals are immortal (often even daemonic) in nature. In any case, he does nothing with them other than keep them imprisoned, quickly forgetting about them and returning to his endless studies when the Periapt falls silent again.

At some point in time lost to Kosach he came in contact with Dragonspire, a small castle held by vampiric knights in the mountains near to the Underkeep. He maintains cordial relations with them as they provide him with much needed muscle when the Periapt calls him to one of his surface missions. In return he allows the Lord Carmine unlimited access to his prisoners, although he doesn´t have the slightest clue as to what the Lord Carmine does with them. Then again, he doesn´t care much as such thoughts easily leave his mind when compared to his studies.

The Underkeep is an odd construction, built as much to keep invaders out as to keep its occupants in. It is essentially a spiraling tunnel going down into the earth for several hundred meters. At regular intervals into the tunnel there is a small fortress with ramparts facing both ways of the tunnel. Inside of each fortress are several holding cells. The deeper one goes into the tunnel the more secure the cells become, for example the higher cells are comparable to those in an ordinary, well-maintained human prison, whereas the lower cells have magical enchantments of binding and nullification placed upon them. Each fortress beyond the first two is manned by a garrison of wights oddly not under Kosach´s control who ignore him for the most part. Kosach maintains his lair in the second fortress which is held purely by his own creations. At the surface-entrance of the tunnel lies a fortress known as the Undermouth which is largely abandoned save for the ghouls, bandits and occasional travelers inhabiting it. A strange symbiotic relationship has come to exist as Kosach´s zombies maintain and repair a defendable home for the bandits who in turn pay Kosach tribute in the form of fresh corpses, weapons and other raw materials.

When Kosach leaves his lair he usually does so at the head of a giant horde of zombies with skeletal horsemen scouting ahead. Although he does not command them directly, the vampiric knights of Dragonspire join him without exception as a reserve force of heavy cavalry.

Wisdom comes at price. My Wisdom is greatest; therefore do I pay the greatest price.
Last edited:

Wolf Child

Feb 6, 2012
You conjured up some brilliant images there Macarien,I can really picture Kosach studying scrolls deep within the Underkeep.I particularly like how you described Kosachs lair in the second fortress is guarded by 'his own creations'.... I'm thinking huge,violent mutants.Guardian beasts that he constructed and then forgot about.

Jon Skellan

Oct 9, 2019
It seems that this thread requires some resurrecting spell.
With fresh blood and toil, we shall raise it!

Name: Wilhelm August Sapiens, Freiherr von Weisseklippe von Blutstrom von Wolfsburg
Title: The Crimson Rider, Wielder of the Bane of Dwarves, Butcher of Karak Peras, Carrier of the Golden Chalice of Nagashizzar
Origin: Weisseklippe, a small castle built upon a craggy cliff close to the city of Munshausen, in Stirland, close to the Talabecland border.
Age: Unknown (was over 800 years old when the World-That-Was was destroyed, and stayed in dormancy for at centuries uncounted afterwards)
Sire: Mikhail Moussorgsky, Boyar of Medvedgrad (deceased)
Current Location: Realm of Ghur
Associates: Lord Paladin Gorefeaster, Prince of the Golden City, Archregent of the March of Blight's Edge.

Background: Wilhelm August was a true gentleman, an educated noble fluent in many languages, who enjoyed the finer things in life: women, wine, food, hunting. His family owned the free castle of Weisseklippe, a tiny spot of land unbeholden to anyone but the Emperor himself. Some said this was due to his ancestors being party buddies with a Reiksland Emperor who wished to annoy the Stirland Elector. Wilhelm August had been taught it was due to an act of selfless courage in the defense of the Empire that gained his ancestor the favor of the Emperor at the time. Only Ulric, Morr and Sigmar remembered the truth, but Wilhelm August tried to emulate the behavior he'd been taught was his familial legacy.

As the years passed, he found himself riding in defense of the Empire, often on the Sylvanian border, sometimes deep in marshland or high in the mountains. He came to the help of the dwarves, was saved in turn by the gaily hued riders of Bretonnia on their great steeds, fought the evil of Chaos in the Kislevite North. His reputation as a swordsman grew, while the time he could spend at home or in Altdorf dwindled. As he reached his mid-forties, he started considering the wisdom of leaving the battlefield and siring a heir. His family wasn't rich, but his constant warring had brought gold in his coffers, and Weisseklippe was doing well under his steward's command. He was no Duke, but at the Court a Freiherr is almost as important as a Count, and much more notable than a mere Knight, and his military prowess itself made him a valuable bachelor to many a young lady, or more likely her parents.

Maybe this was why Wilhelm August found himself, under a beautifully coloured sunset sky, riding to a large Gasthaus on the way to Marienburg, back from Couronne where he'd led a small expedition. The background of the faraway Grey Mountains to a side, the gently rolling Reik river, the evening birds' singing sweetly... he couldn't help consider how some evenings were fraught with Goblin attacks or unnaturally large wolves stalking his troops, and some belied this violence, bringing a measure of perfection to the world. He'd agreed upon a dowry with the father of a beautiful blonde. The girl, a Salkaltenite archer, was older than the usual bride at 22, but they'd found common ground as she'd spent her free time studying music and languages. Her family, warriors male and female, often fought off small Chaos parties landing on the Sea of Claws beaches, and the gems and weapons already yielded enough to maintain their holdings. She would be the perfect wife, intelligent and more than capable of holding and defending Weisseklippe, should the Beastmen grow stronger again. Perhaps these happy thoughts played a part in the amicable discussion he had with Mikhail Moussorgsky, a tall Kislevite who joined the guests a few hours later. Perhaps Wilhelm August might have been more attentive to tiny details, had he not been eager to hear tales from Kislev, a land so close to Ostland, bordered by the same Sea of Claws as Salkalten. Perhaps he'd have noticed the rare blink, the pallid skin. Perhaps he wouldn't. Kislevites are rare, near Marienburg. Who's to say they don't all look very pale and unblinking? The Boyar rode back to Kislev, he said. He'd likely come across their path often on the way to Altdorf, after which their ways would definitely part. And he did. Almost every evening, a bit after hours, the Boyar would stride into the inn, or by the fire that Wilhelm August's men had lighted.

Both men enjoyed their discussions immensely, but who could have expected that this happy travelling would be cut short brutally? As the riders went in a dark patch of forest on the way to Carroburg, shrill yells and whistles suddenly echoed through the trees. Massive oaks started crashing behind the party, and a enormous spider carrying a ridiculously small Goblin covered in feather walked in front of them. Wilhelm August, loathe to order a charge at such a huge beast, noticed smaller red and green spiders, still big as horses, rushing through the underbrush at his riders. Before he had time to wheel his horse, three huge Troggoths broke through the cover on his other side. Reckoning the situation left him no choice, the Freiherr ordered his men to charge at the ugly creature. The tiny, insane Goblin on top of the Howdah screeched at him, banging mushrooms on his altar, then seizing his staff he pointed it at Wilhelm August. The rider duked the sudden ray of sickly light that connected the staff to the ground, but the resulting explosion dropped three of his followers to the ground, where black cloaked Goblins and feather-dressed Goblins ganged up on them. Horrified, Wilhelm August focused on the gigantic monster, avoiding a direct hit from her legs, then her sniping, snapping mandibles. As another of his riders joined him, he quickly signaled him to attack the spider from the left, while he slashed at her leg's unprotected kneecap. His sword, great steel from Stirland, bounced on the chitinous creature, denting it and causing a cry of pain from the red-brown creature. The shaman on top of her yelled ugly, incomprehensible words at him, clearly insulting him. Seizing the moment, Wilhelm August grabbed his dagger and threw it in a perfect arc, straight into the little, evil Greenskin's belly, pinning him to the feathered wooden post. Blood sputtered from his mouth and his beady black eyes seemed to dull as he became limp. Suddenly, the spider seemed to become utterly mad. Her huge mandibles started biting at everything, catching surprised Goblins, impaling a troll with her huge leg and throwing him at a charging rider. Two riders only had survived the fight, and the footmen were fighting a difficult battle against enraged Goblins and lumbering Troggoths. Wilhelm August realized his next action would likely decide the fight's outcome. Leaving the footmen to their fate, he called the riders to him and charged at the spider again. As she struck, he
swerved, jumped and grabbed the top of her leg before sliding onto her head. Only two of her blue eyes could see him there, and not even very precisely, but she became even more angry and tried to shake him off with gigantic movements. Another of his daggers firmly embedded in a softer part of her chitinous armor's joints, he held, until his riders attacked her legs in a coordinated fashion. Distracted, she tried to bite them. Wilhelm August threw himself forward and embedded his whole sword into her eye and deep in her brain. The beast tipped over and careened into the ground with world-ending force. The Freiherr jumped at the very last second, avoiding being crushed under her weight, but the closest rider was less lucky. A quick look at the battlefield told him all there was to know: one rider was left alive, and only a dozen footmen, their back pressed to a rocky outcrop. Two Troggoths and at least two scores of Goblins, most of them robbed in black, were boxing them in. Wilhelm August could have ran, then. He could have saved his life, letting his men to their inescapable doom. He vaulted to the back of his horse, who had come back to him cantering, gestured to the remaining rider and charged at the Goblins shouting to the top of his voice. Surprised, they suddenly noticed the death of the spider and her rider, and their will seemed to evaporate. Goblins seemed to melt back into the shadows, and suddenly only the dim-witted Rockguts were left. One brought a hammer of wood and rock down onto the soldiers, killing two, but he was quickly surrounded and suddenly heavily outnumbered. The other Troggoth turned around and charged at the oncoming riders, carrying an enormous rock over his head. Wilhelm August decided to hit fast the weaker belly, since even the throat of the creature was covered in thick, rock-like natural armor. Avoiding the thrown rock, he did not see the left fist of the monster coming, hitting his side and breaking every bone he knew of. His last conscious thought through the pain and the black curtain falling over his eyes was that there was a glint of malice and hate in the monster's eyes. He'd underestimated their intelligence, and he was going to die for it.

Wilhelm August woke up later, infinitely later. He was in a cellar, lying in a coffin. He was hungry, terribly hungry. He could hear the sobs of a young woman behind a door. He was so hungry. He tried to get up, and felt the pain in his body. It wasn't limited to his side, as it should have. In fact, it did not feel as if any bone was broken, and his body seemed to bear no mark of damage. It was a different kind of pain, as one would feel if their body was left out to dry in the desert for days, but they did not die. Gritting his teeth, he got out of the coffin. Did they think him dead? Who did, actually? Did his men survive the fight, and left him for dead in a nearby inn? His mind seemed slow, and questions swam the muddy waters of his thought like sharks waiting to bite his sanity. As he opened the door and pushed through the room, he noticed several things. The girl was almost naked, and pretty. He wasn't even remotely attracted to her, and still, it was as if the hunger within him had grown in strength when he saw her. She was sobbing hysterically now. Mikhail was sitting in a recliner, playing with a beautiful dagger engraved with Kislevite words. And there was no light source whatsoever, yet Wilhelm August could see clearly.


Wilhelm August does not take kindly to the malediction stories concerning the Blood Kiss. He brought into unlife his martial prowess, his sense of beauty and the habits of respecting and accumulating knowledge. Where he once learned from other cultures, he's now more concerned with magical lore and historic tidbits. Civilizations have gone past since the World-That-Was was destroyed, and even the God Sigmar himself has forgotten much of what he did, created, built, and ordered. Only tiny shreds of truth can be uncovered, and the only goal one can have concerning ages past is to gather souvenirs of beauty and artefacts of power. When he awoke from the Long Slumber, deeply entombed under a battlefield, Wilhelm August thought he was doomed to stay there forever, too weak to tunnel, subject o abject pain til his mind went. That's when a huge rat-like creature burrowed into his nose, crushing his face and ripping his left fear. The pain was excruciating, but to one subject to the Blood Hunger, waking up after millennia, it is nothing. Wilhelm August's luck turned there. Maybe Nagash dropped his cold stare upon him. Maybe it was just luck. None but Nagash can tell. The rat-thing curled up and died, its weak heart suddenly giving out. Wilhelm August found the strength to free his hand from the hard-packed earth and grab the creature from the small cave. Bringing it to his ruined face, he drank the unsatisfying blood, which gave him strength enough to burrow into the tunnel. He then followed it, enlarging it as he went, and finally found his way into a Skaven lair where he stealthily moved and fed until his body fixed itself. This experience gave Wilhelm August a interest in survival skills and made him an above average sneak, even among vampires.
He remembers little from his millennia-old life, even though, to him, time went by instantaneously since the World broke into Realms. He does, though, remember his sire's ultimate demise, betrayed by Von Carstein the Insane during the enaction of his plans... that ended with destroying the world. Whether Wilhelm August hates Mannfred or the High Elves who burnt his sire most remains to be proved.

Relations: Allied with the Ghoul Archregent Gorefeaster, an insane monster who believes himself a mighty Prince and Paladin. Gorefeaster reigns supreme on a massive Ghurish Ghoulish Empire, gigantic catacombs tunneling under huge jungles, which he sees as gilded cities and a wealthy, powerful nation. Wilhelm August is happy to let him pretend that, as long as he may call upon packs of Ghouls of various sizes anytime he needs "proud Knights to defend honor and quest for glory".

Lair: High in the mountains, the Castle of Wolfsburg is built upon a massive rocky outcrop in the shape of a wolf's head. From there, a long road winds down to a secondary fortification upon a river that curves through ferrous cliffs. That fortification protects a small, forlorn village called Blutstrom, likely because of the red tint of the iron-rich waters. Wilhelm August is a good suzerain to the humans he lords over, not because of useless feelings, but because he finds they are more productive and easier to control when they're reasonably happy. He also profoundly hates Chaos, which ensures he swiftly destroys any threat to his underlings with wave upon wave of Skeletons. The farmers, merchants and warriors of his domain are aware of his nature, but they find a Bloodsucker who actively makes their life sustainable a better choice than the Chaotic Masters to the South, the creatures of the woods, eleven or bestial, or even the Sigmarite Stormcast, for with all their talk of "humanity", Sigmar's weapons don't seem to care for survival of individuals.

Army: Many Skeletons, Terrorgheists, Zombie Dragons, Guards, Wights and Necromancers.

Motto: Survival and Honor. Glory matters not, as all is forgotten, but Honor lives as long as you do, should you nurture it.
  • Like
Reactions: Grave Tacticus

About us

  • Our community has been around for many years and pride ourselves on offering unbiased, critical discussion among people of all different backgrounds. We are working every day to make sure our community is one of the best.

Quick Navigation

User Menu