Autumn of the Year 1476, Wallachia
Three intrepid heroes stood between the ravenous oncoming tide of darkness, and the retreating people of a nameless village. It was not a vital objective, nor were they being paid in silver or gold. These people didn't even know their names. Nonetheless, they fought to protect them from certain slavery and death.
They had already been fighting for weeks. Brutal clashes in alleys and fields, chased and hunted through the woodlands and hills. In the beginning the Night Creatures had prowled the lands in packs or advanced before vampire raiding parties, murdering whole villages just like this one down to the last helpless crying babe. Others were depopulated, their inhabitants abducted to become captive cattle for the vampires abattoirs and larders.
They were not without some success; a few objectives had been achieved in denying the enemy advance, and new allies had been found. Through it all their skills were honed to a knife's edge, and few of the rampaging monsters could stand against the heroes fighting as one.
Matters had quickly changed once again, however, when the banner of the White Dragon was raised; now, order had been imposed among the chaos of the enemy forces. Instead of wanton slaughter, the vampires imposed a blood tax upon every captured settlement; they meant to farm humanity like sheep.
Other forces had been witnessed and confronted, but these were neither blood-thirsty undead nor the vile summoned locusts of Hell. Beasts, spirits, giants and fae things now marched against Wallachia, drawn to the enemy cause by the promise of a land to call their own.
The clarion voices of twisting goat-horns and the howl of savage throats echoed in the wood, and ravens cackled high overhead. The very trees twisted and groaned with inhuman voices older than any human tongue. A cloying mist pushed forward, reaching for the party like grasping hands, until a glyph of salt and oil combusted and revealed a magical circle. Upon contact, the spectral vapor hissed and retreated like a wounded animal.
Arrows lanced out in an unpredictable pattern, but these champions were not so easily pierced; the pale swordsman snapped his blessed weapon to and fro, while the cursing man leaped and rolled in the dirt until the magus erected a barrier of shimmering blue light.
They could see them, beneath the canopy's shadow; many dozens of bipeds, but certainly not men. They watched, and glared, but they did not cross the treeline. The expected wave of furious claws and fangs failed to materialize, but even so the defenders did not drop their guard. A hush fell over the forest, and even the wind stilled.
Alucard tensed, and his silver blade buzzed anxiously at his side like a wasp in distress.
"She's coming."
Like a faerie of myth their foe emerged - an ethereal, pale maiden dressed in black and blue that matched her wintry gaze. Silver hair tumbled down her shoulders and back, and where she walked, she moved with grace such that there was no track to follow. She was flawless and beautiful as a marble statue, her expression cold and severe. The arrayed enemy forces kneeled to their Princess as she passed.
"Hello, Adrien. It's been a while."
"That it has, sister."