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TVC - (Supplemental Piece) - The Hildenheim Massacre

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Ardent sentinels of wheat and grain stood shuffling listlessly in the midsummer's breeze, the golden orb of sunlight sinking low to cast a fleeting smile against the golden fields. Hues of pink and bold amber bathed the sky in an iridescent aura of peace and warmth and as Pieter stood, knuckling his back and loosing a sigh to dance amid the zephyrs of an impassioned sky, he wished he could be gone from this place, as beautiful as it was. His brother had gone to crusade, to quest in the Lady's honor, and he was stuck, while Osric sought fame and fortune unlike any this sleepy hamlet might ever see. Even now, thought Pieter, the battle of Ceren Fields must be abound with such righteous knights, boldly pushing back a host of horrors both terrible in their purpose and magnificent in the opportunity a striving knight might reap from their conquest.

Pieter hefted a broken bough that lay amid the dancing luster of twilight upon the grass and swung it in a wide arc, as if vanquishing some unseen foe arrayed before him. Pieter, however, saw his enemy as plain as the yawning sun that slipped ponderously beneath the wavering wheat.

"Red Duke," Pieter shouted. "I have come for thee, and by my honour and that of all the damsels in the realm do I strike at thine black heart!"

And on that grassy hogback, he was a knight, valiant and chivalrous in the fading light. He fought against skaven, greenskins, and the hordes of the dead arisen until the slender, argent fingers of moonlight bode stirring shadows to rise and drift amid them. Pieter soon grew anxious as he felt the weight of unseen eyes fall upon him.

"Sir Pieter," came a dainty, fevered voice, much to Pieter's surprise as he leapt backward, dropping the shard of wood to the ground, a look of bewilderment and shock gripping his face in embarrassment and frustration. The voice burbled with mirth and a chorus of giggles erupted from the choir of assembled girls, a look of curious amusement stitched across their leader's face.

"Won't you do us the honor of saving us from this beast," Gretta breathed heavily, encircling Pieter and pretending to swoon as she fell against him and they both tumbled to the ground.

"Oh, dear me," Gretta laughed. "Knights must surely be stronger than that."

Another eruption of laughter essayed from the assembled gaggle of girls.

"I've not the strength of my brother, Gretta," Pieter grumbled. "He is a full five summers my elder. Give me as long and you just wait and see."

"Oh, I plan to, my Lord," Gretta laughed with a mock curtsy, her fiery locks breaking in waves over her shoulders and lapping at her bright sundress. "Now come, before your mother brightens my hide as well as yours."

They plucked their way through wheat and barley, accompanied by the pallid shades of silver and alabaster that kissed the silent crops with the promise of newborn night. The sallow smile of the rising moon greeted them as it waxed full and the winking stars seemed to snigger with the tittering of the teasing children. Yet, Pieter took it all in stride, for he was a valiant knight, escorting the fair damsels of Bretonnia through the shadows that crept in the darkness.

Then, born on a chill breeze wholly unnatural to the midsummer's air, came the screams.

"Leave their homes intact," he shrieked. "I want the hollowed corpses of these pitiful dwellings to serve as a reminder, a testament to the power of the night and the Lords thereof! Let them know that no matter how strong the door, I will breach it, and the shadows where they seek respite are the open arms of my embrace! That within this cold, still heart lies only death!"

Plated boots ground pocks into sodden muck, churning the stew of pasted viscera, blood, and rust hued mud. Hildenheim would stand. Hildenheim would remain; alone, damned, and rotting for all eternity. At Ceren Fields these sacks of pulsing flesh had rebuked his lord, and in their arrogance sought celebration in the night. Their young master had returned, all too easy for a varghulf to track. He looked to Goreshanks. The bat-thing's wiry massive frame dripped with vermilion tribute to its savagery; it's matted fur and snarling fangs spattered in blood and warm, quivering tissue.

"Bring me his family."


-I'll edit more into this as the game progresses.-
 
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