AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just an excuse to take fun pictures more than anything. It's a short bit that goes back to the Bloodmoon war, where the dwindling vampires and werewolves took on the witchfinders. This takes place about 40 years before Act 2 of Divided.#
CONTENT WARNING: war/conflict, some blood, violence, murder
Alistair
Everyone back home thought it strange- a devout Peteran going into battle. Many of the other Peterans condemned it entirely, saying it would sever my connection to the Watcher. Peterism wasn't just about pacifism, however- it was about defending the good from the evil, and I couldn't do that kneeling in front of a statue every single day.
Blythe panicked, but I assured her that I would come back. She spoke of us possibly having children when I came back; I wasn't against the thought, but I know how much the Bloodmoon war has changed me. I didn't want my child to ever be fully aware of what was in their blood...the brutality of the wolf. No, my child would grow up to never lay a finger on another soul, that was the plan. If we end up with a son, I don't want him marred by conflict the way the rest of us are.
Over the year that I'd participated in the Bloodmoon conflict, most of it was a blur; I'd fought most of my battles as the ferocious wolf, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't tempting to give in entirely to it. There was something tempting about rage that I couldn't put a finger on. Maybe a lifetime of being raised Peteran was what had done it. I'd spent most of my life having to force myself away from anger that now I could give in to it freely, I didn't want to let it go. Lunvin's influence was immensely powerful, and to let it run its course instead of trying to hold back...it was something beautiful.
Our group had dwindled greatly over time, but none of us were going to give up and go home- we'd give our lives for the good of vampires, werewolves and witches alike.
One particular member of our group stood out among the rest, and word
got around about him. Somehow, we'd become fairly close, maybe even
friends, and he taught me how to fight with a sword as well as my
claws. At first, I was fairly afraid of him- but he'd taken us under his wing almost immediately, and almost in a sort of paternal way.
Oskar Nivelheim, from Windenburg, once a woodworker, who'd spent the past ninety years or so between Windenburg and some remote town, now staying in Lunvik until the worst of the conflict was over. He'd never told any of the others this, but he told me that he'd almost died of terminal illness before a friend saved him by turning him. He seemed fearful discussing it; what good was a soldier who feared death? I'd never dared to ask him.
Many of the witchfinders were terrified once they realised the reality of the situation. They were used to hunting down frightened women who never fought back, who grovelled at their feet and pleaded guilty to witchcraft- even those who didn't have any magical abilities. Yet here they were, stood in front of genuine monsters, plenty capable of fighting back, and twice as brutally as the witchfinders.
There were plenty of strange things about Oskar. One that everyone had picked up on was his habit of waffling on until somebody had no choice but to interrupt him to get back on topic. The other was the way he'd switch from whimsical and comical to stern and cold in a matter of seconds.
His combat strategy was something else entirely. Most witchfinders often laughed him off, often insulting his masculinity in some way- none of them knowing entirely what they were in for.
Regardless of how many witchfinders he found himself against at once, it was always the same- not so much a fight as much as a dance of silver and metal.
After a bout of confounding his opponents with fanciful swordsmanship, that's when the witchfinders regretted their bravado. He'd strike back when they least expected it. For a lot of us, even for werewolves, taking a man's life was a thing of necessity in the sense that there was rarely any pleasure associated it...That wasn't the case with Oskar.
Oskar had a fascination with schadenfreude, a word from his mother tongue that supposedly meant a sort of pleasure derived from your enemies' misery. Oftentimes, he wouldn't bother with a killing blow straight away. Most parents teach their children not to play with their food. Apparently, the vampires didn't listen.
The pouring blood and the screams of pain were a source of morale, that's what he told me. The sight of blood was irresistible to him. He'd look upon the wounded foe the way a lion might look upon a gazelle; it was daunting even to the people on his side.
However, the main reason he never bothered with the killing blow with the sword wasn't because he liked to toy with the opponent- at least, not entirely. In part, it was to not 'waste a good meal', in his words. He'd even lick the blood of the flat part of the blade, usually in front of the downed foe.
Messing with the wounded opponent got the blood rushing- that was what he'd tell me. Often, if someone lay dying, friend or foe, I'd put them out of their misery with my sword if I were in human form. Oskar, on the other hand, wanted his enemies' last moments to be as horrific as he could possibly make them.
Witchfinders often underestimated vampires. They'd heard the stories, but they never entirely believed just what they were capable of until it was too late.
We all knew better than to interrupt a vampire in the middle of a feeding. The human's skin would gradually turn paler and paler, and their skin would almost shrivel. The worst part was the sound more than anything- the pleasurable moans from the vampire's throat as they drank them dry. Every passing day, we were glad that Oskar was on our side.
I'd caught back up with him just as he was finishing up. He lifted himself off the floor with vigor.
"You've...still got a little something on your face, Oskar."
"Oh, don't tell me you can't handle a little blood, Alistair, or you're in the wrong position," he says, laughing, spraying a little blood on my armour in the process. "What about the other witchfinders?"
"We got rid of them. There were about five or six, all dealt with."
"Good, good," he replies, the whimsy returning to his voice for a moment. "This one put up more of a fight than usual."
The witchfinder was reduced to a sack of bones and giblets. Whilst he was in a good mood, I decided to risk asking the burning question.
"There's something I've been meaning to ask for a while, Oskar..."
"You always seemed you had a fear of death, yet here you are risking your life every single day."
I don't think I was supposed to ask him that, judging by the expression he gave me- but he answered anyway. There's only so long I can look into those piercing pupils before I have to look away.
"No human is stronger than either of us, Alistair," he replies, his voice losing all traces of the cheeriness from earlier. "We have plenty of ways to deal with our enemies, whether it's tearing out their throats or draining their blood. As far as I'm concerned, we're untouchable- never forget that."
I wanted to think that, I really did. If we were truly untouchable, we wouldn't be nearing local extinction more and more every day. Still, as self-proclaimed leader of our group, I had to admire his confidence. We all did. No matter how much the odds were stacked against us, and how worse they got- we had to keep going. Oskar always believed that, one day, the war on the large scale would be over. I could only hope for the same, so I could see Blythe again.