7 Years Later

Refugee Capital

9:00 pm

This town had lost its name to history. Ghost town didn't seem to do it enough justice: it wasn't a town of ghosts, but a ghost itself, winking in and out of existence on the sparkling shores of the Elbe river. Traders once passed by it on their trade routes, stopping over only if the river banks were too soggy for their tent pitchings. They stayed just long enough to wash their faces, water the horses, grab a bite and be gone before the dust their mounts kicked up had settled.

It was never really intended for anyone to stay there. But that was before the Taint and his armies had swept the land like a great cloud of death and destruction. There was no safe place left in all of Germany, save for the tiny speck of a town, so completely unremarkable in every way that even an evil dictator hell bent on ruling the entire world didn't see the point of capturing it. Of course, it was also very possible that he had merely skipped over it on his map by accident.

Whatever the case for this uneasy peace, the town soon became a Mecca of the displaced and distraught. Tattered families and broken soldiers streamed in like a dirty deluge, each new arrival with a story more terrible than the last. It was so that the little town with no name became a city of stories. Their loved ones may have departed quickly, in a flash of flames and demon's claws, a pang of pain, then nothing. But it was the survivors who carried the weight of their stories. And it crushed them a little more each day.

The town was dubbed by its denizens as the 'Refugee Capital', with all the love and affection of a butcher slaughtering a squealing pig. After their ordeals, forgive them if they weren't feeling terribly poetic. It was simple, served the purpose, and was perhaps less melodramatically cringeworthy than the 'City of Damned Orphans, Soldiers, Traitors and Cowards.' As straightforwardly as its name, the city gave all those tortured people, and the things they had seen, a place to rest, but that was all it was. The Refugee Capital housed the waifs of war, but it was nobody's home. Their real homes, after all, were overrun with demons, and the countryside crawled with bandits. In the Refugee Capital, on the other hand,  it was the thieves who ruled the streets.

This guy must've known the dangers of being out after dark. There he was, cursing himself as he tried to find his way home on the cold, moonless night. His silent stalker couldn't help a chuckle as he committed a few new ones to his memory. Curses were useful where he came from. The man froze as if he'd been shot. 'Aaaaah, too loud.' The thief may have been an expert of slipping out of sight, but his mouth was another beast to tame altogether. The man finally gathered up the courage to whip around, only to be faced with an empty road.

He continued, a little faster this time. For some inconceivable reason, he decided that the alleys were a better bet than the street. Trying to lose him? The thief thought not. 'Go ahead. Play right into my hands, why don't you?' He followed him in with a low, malicious chuckle.

The man ran through the winding, serpentine alleys, tripping over things and crashing into walls. He took a wrong turn, dashed headlong into a dead end where his palms connected hard with crumbling brick and mortar. His assailant dropped down from above with feline grace, as if a drop of the shadows spilled onto the street. The man screamed.

"Oh quiet, already, no one can hear you." The dark figure spoke in a crisp, commanding tone, that was tinged with amusement.

"Please let me go..." The man begged. A thief? Or an assassin? The Refugee Capital boasted a fine selection of both.

"Let you go, huh? Gee, I dunno, lemme ask my little friend here." The white of the thief's teeth shone through the dark, but not as brightly as the glint of the steel knife he flipped out of his pocket. The man inhaled sharply at the sight of the weapon.

"Wh-What do you want from me?"

"Stupidity tax!" The thief laughed, pointing the knife at his throat. He nearly split into giggles when the man jumped as if he'd been stabbed. "Drop your money, your valuables and... Well you know what? Make that everything." The man was quick to comply, emptying his pockets of a wallet, a timepiece and a pair of reading glasses. "Aaaand those." Unable to contain his grin, he pointed at the man's pants. He flushed bright red, from one bean shaped ear to the other.

"You must be joking."

"I did say everything..." The thief watched with an amused expression as his victim undid his belt buckle and allowed his pants to fall around his ankles. "Much better," The thief snickered as he gathered up the things on the ground. He experimentally balanced the glasses on the bridge of his nose, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

"You can have that one..." He tossed them back into the man's hands and gave him a two-finger salute. "Hey, don't ever say I wasn't nice to you." Then, using the shocked man's shoulders as a springboard, he gracefully vaulted himself on top of the dead end's brick wall.

"Who are you?" The man demanded, hastily pulling his pants back up.

"Who am I?" He heard a chuckle as his assailant spun around on the wall and grinned down at him. A flash of startlingly green eyes. "I am Tyler Alcott! The sole survivor of the Ostengarde Incident!"

***

The Jack of Spades Bar

9:40 pm

"-and so I said to him, that's not a toupee! That's your dog!" Tyler roared with laughter. The woman sitting beside him at the bar merely stared at him with one big grey eye, the other one hidden behind a short curtain of brown hair highlighted with green. Her gaze was unfocused, like a fish in a bowl, and she drank like one too.

"That's funny, right Miri?" He prompted. She blinked slowly. Whether she was stunned by  his sparkling conversation or on whatever fresh hell was doing the rounds on the streets, Tyler could never be sure. She was pretty though, and consented to hang on his arm until the drink ran dry.

"Refill?" The barkeep asked. 'Speak of the devil...' Tyler reached into his gold pouch and came up empty. She somehow caught that with the sharpness of a hawk...

"Later, Ty." Miri sighed, stood and walked off without a word.

"Oh come on, babe!" He complained. She disappeared in the crowd. Tyler glanced to the woman at his other side. "Golddiggers, am I right?" The buxom ginger rolled her eyes and went the way of the first. He groaned into the bottom of his glass.

"Women, am I right?"

"How are you going to pay for that?" The bartender arched an eyebrow at him, deftly flicking his wrist as he cleaned a glass. Tyler glared through his eyebrows.

"What are you gonna do, Flavian? Call your hired lunk here to beat me up again? Don't you get enough fights in this bar for free?"

"Oh, it'll be free. I'll just tell him you were putting the moves on his girlfriend again."

"Miri's not his girlfriend..." Tyler muttered.

"Uh-huh. Same way that's not denial." Flavian sighed and topped up the thief's glass with scotch. Tyler looked at him suspiciously. "There is... One thing you could do for me." Flavian leaned in close. "See the guy over there?" He nodded briefly at a table in the corner that was curtained in darkness. A man dressed in black from head to toe sat there, huddled over a mug of something. His face was obscured by the brim of a top hat, but Tyler could make out dark hair underneath.

"Yeah..." Tyler intoned warily.

"He's Father Grimm. The Priest." Tyler's eyes widened.

"We have a priest?"

"Yes, and he's been coming in every night for the past week-"

"We have a church?" He was still floundering. A minor crease marked the bartender's brow.

"Yes, now pay attention you drunk, slimy," He paused, cleared his throat and continued. "He's been in here every night this week and it's killing my business. No one drinks as much in front of a man of the cloth, you know?"

"No."

"I know you don't have any morals, Tyler, but some of us do. I think he's looking for a volunteer. A warrior to run an errand for him. You're not too shabby with that knife, are you?" Tyler grinned and flipped his knife out of his pocket with a little flourish. Flavian watched as he subjected him to an impromptu knife juggling show.

"Let's just say the assassin's guild missed out on a gem..."

"Really?" Flavian smiled wearily. "I always thought it was the circus that was missing its juggling midget." Tyler's face went red at once. He hissed.

"Don't go there."

"Then go over there."Grumbling under his breath, Tyler edged himself off the bar stool. He was annoyed with how far his feet had to fall to the ground.

Father Grimm looked up, as Tyler approached, his dark eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat."Good evening," He said simply. Tyler made a face. Men of faith... He wasn't exactly a fan. "Evening, Father. I heard you were in need of some aid."

"Indeed. Can I count on you?"

"Just count out your money."

"Morabella Fontaine."

"Never heard of her," Tyler walked with the priest down the street behind the bar.

"She lives in the ninth district. The wealthier one." Grimm said meaningfully. Oh, Tyler needed no explanation on wealth.

"So let me get this straight: according to you, there's a gorgeous, wealthy aristocrat who lives alone in a mansion and you want me to infiltrate her house to spy on her?"

"Because she may be a vampire." the priest said abruptly. Tyler stared at him for a few seconds. Then he burst out laughing. "People have been disappearing around her location, and there have been rumors from her old servants-" The priest ended on an abrupt cough as Tyler interrupted with a heavy clap on the back.

"I think it's time you learned not to take those biblical verses so seriously, buddy!" he laughed, shaking his head. "I'll take the job. You just worry about the paycheck."

***

Riech's Arch - The Tainted Wilds

10:30 pm

"Don't let them get away!" The soldier in the lead ordered. His once sparkling black and gold armor was streaked with blood. Some of his victims, some of his friends, and some of his own. "Yes, sir!" His squad rushed past him, swords in hand. Nothing gave him greater joy than seeing the Tainted on the run, with their tails between their legs. It was rare, but that was what made it all the more satisfying. The soldiers' footsteps clattered over the stones as they pursued the creatures back from whence they'd come.

"Quick! Before they escape to the Hive!" Ordered their commander.

"Commander," One of them paused in mid-charge, "I'm not sure we should be out here so far into tainted land." The sharp edge of the commander's visor sliced through the air as he turned to the soldier.

"I didn't ask you to be sure. I told you to follow orders." The soldier's helm tilted downwards in distaste, but that was the extent of the defiance he was willing to show his commander. Without another word, he fell back in line with the others. As for the commander himself, his gaze affixed itself to the dark shapes fleeing over the wilds. Somewhere out there was the Hive. The befouled, polluted cesspool they seemed to spawn from. Where dozens of his friends had been dragged to their graves, twisted and corrupted until they came back for him in the form of mutilated beasts for the culling. In them, he saw no recognition except his own reflected back at him from the contours of their tarnished armor. He needed to see it for himself, and shut down that factory of nightmares personally.

The commander ambushed one of the fleeing creatures from a rocky outcrop. He drove his sword through its chest, impaling it to the ground like a butterfly mounted on a board. A very, very ugly butterfly... He watched it squirm with some disgust, before barking his questions.

"Where have you come from?! Where is the Hive?!" He was met with inhuman shrieks and squeals as it clawed at his blade. It got a lucky strike in, nicking his gauntlet with ragged claws. He cursed, drew his golden dagger and lopped the wretched appendage off at the wrist. "I asked you a question!" He roared over its howls of agony. He yelled at it, until he was yelling at a corpse, and then some. Realizing he'd been a little too rough with it, and not regretting it one bit, the commander dislodged his sword from its ribcage and stepped over the body.

Something latched around his ankle. The commander gave a start and lowered his gaze to find the severed hand gripping his ankle like a vice.

"Filthy creatures..." He shook his leg until it fell off, watched it flop on the ground like a floundering fish, and impaled it once more for good measure.

"Commander, we lost the rest." He looked up at the sound of one of his soldier's voices.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. He looked out over the badlands, then closed his eyes. The flowering meadows that once undulated over those contours still danced in his mind's eye.

"Let's go," he said tacitly.

"Aww, going so soon?" came the cold, toneless voice. Everyone turned around to find one of the creatures blocking the exit. The commander inhaled sharply. The tainted one's armor was minimal and worn out and he held a bloody, rusted sword. Judging by its poise and apparent coherence of speech, he deduced that it had to be a soul hunter. One of the elite soldiers of the Taint's army. He knew better than to underestimate one. The hunter's near colorless eyes met his unblinkingly.

"You're outnumbered, demon." The commander growled, tightening his grip on his sword.

"Am I?" The hunter asked tauntingly.

"Don't play games," His lips pulled into a snarl under his visor.

Meanwhile, the small troop had started to get restless. They glanced around nervously. The hunter traced a line across his sword in an uninterested way.

"You really need to learn to analyze your situation." He grinned.

"W-We're in trouble!" A member of the phalanx cried out. The commander looked around wildly. Suddenly the rock faces were dotted with glowing pairs of eyes. There were so many and more of them blinked into sight every moment. He cursed again; they were cornered at every conceivable angle.

"You don't scare us!" the commander yelled over the low, hungry growls. No, they weren't scared. Terrified was more like it. And tainted ones were never terribly bright, but they were experts of fear.

"Cut your losses," The hunter's eyes gleamed. He'd singled out the single female member of the phalanx, and was now sizing her up from head to toe. She shifted uneasily beside the other. The commander found himself stepping in between them, as if protecting her from his probing gaze. "I want her."

"You dare think I'd even consider that?!" The commander erupted. "I don't make deals with demons!" The hunter shrugged.

"Well, if it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get." All at once, the creatures leapt down from their posts on the rocky outcrops. The phalanx fell into a defensive stance. The leader of the hunters took on the commander, a victorious grin on his face. The commander knew his phalanx was well trained but he couldn't expect them to win against sheer numbers. His only hope was to take out their leader. Easier said than done.

"What's the matter?" The hunter quickly nicked his wrist. The commander faltered momentarily. "I expected more!" He tore a long gash across his neck. The commander backed up, thoroughly disoriented with his hand over his throat. A shallow cut, thank the gods. Behind him. his men weren't faring much better. No matter how many they cut down, there were always two more to  take their place. One of the soldiers was knocked off guard. The creatures quickly fell upon him. One pried off his breastplate. Another plunged its claws into the exposed flesh underneath. He cried out weakly but none of his teammates could help him as he was rapidly dragged into the dark. The swiftness and brutality of his demise shook the others.The blood frenzied the creatures.

The leader of the creatures observed all this casually as he fought.

"That's one soldier tonight. Maybe you should've taken my offer." The hunter said. The commander's eyes flicked mournfully to the ever-tightening circle of his men.

"Rrrrrah!" The commander squared his shoulder and charged right into his opponent. They crash landed in the rocks; the hunter's sword clattered from his grip. The commander dropped his own in favor of the speed and mobility of his dagger. The hunter's fingers wrapped around a rock; he smashed it against the side of the commander's helmet. Rattled, he rolled aside, holding his head as he tried to settle his double vision. When he'd pieced together the hunter's shadow looming over him, he looked up just in time to see him holding a rock over his head.

The commander rolled to a side as the rock came crashing down. His hand brushed cold steel - his sword - and he raised it to block another of the hunter's attacks. Metal screeched on metal.

"Give up..." The hunter hissed as they strained in a deadlock. The commander's fingers scraped around a handful of dirt.

"Never!" He threw it in the hunter's face. It gave him the moment of distraction he needed to shove his opponent back and take him down with a powerful blow to the chest. The commander lifted him off his feet and slammed him back against the rocky wall.

"Call them off." He was met with a defiant, empty gaze. He raised his sword again. "I said, call them off!"

"Alright! Alright, retreat!" the hunter hissed. The tainted ones slowed then stopped, retreating back into the shadows like they'd never been there. The commander saw his men collapse to their knees, and lean on each other, exhausted. He turned back to the hunter.

"Listen well, creature. I'm looking for someone."  

"Good luck," The hunter gave a wheezing chuckle.

"I don't need luck." He glared directly into the hunter's empty gaze and reached up to his helm. A cascade of golden hair spilled down around his shoulders. "Take a good look." He said in a low growl. "Now go crawl back to your godforsaken hell hole and tell your leader... Tell Alastor Wickerheart that Leofric Eldred is waiting for him!"