16 Caprae
High noon descended upon the vast plains, where the sun hung high, casting long shadows upon the occasional trees dotting the landscape.
In the expanse, a monstrous being, standing at an imposing height of five feet, lurked. Its skin, a ghastly shade of purple, stretched taut over sinewy muscles, and bat-like wings protruded from its back, stained with the blood of its recent prey.
A hapless cow, now nothing more than a carcass.
A sudden, swift movement disrupted the eerie silence. An arrow, true to its mark, struck the monstrous creature squarely in the torso.
The beast ceased its feast and turned its head toward the attacker, its eyes ablaze with fury and hunger.
The assailant appeared out of nowhere, dressed in the garb of a hunter. His attire, designed for maximum mobility, was complemented by a set of leather armor adorned with a noble crest, signifying a lineage of honor and nobility.
Despite his youth, a mere fourteen years, the young hunter displayed a determination that outshone his unsteady and inexperienced demeanor.
With a swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and lunged at the monster, a courageous but reckless move.
He hurled a knife at the creature's head, the blade finding its mark with deadly accuracy. Seizing the opportunity, he followed up with a swift strike at the monster's neck.
The beast, wounded and weakened, stumbled, succumbing to the onslaught. However, the young hunter was not satisfied with merely incapacitating the creature.
With a fierce determination burning in his eyes, he drove his sword into the monster's skull, ensuring its demise.
As the monster breathed its last, a distant clap echoed across the plains.
Approaching from the horizon was Julian Constantine, a figure of stature and wisdom, clad in garments befitting a nobleman and seasoned warrior. His eyes, mirroring the same steely determination as his son's, bore witness to the scene before him.
With a voice that carried both approval and paternal pride, he commended his son, Mathew, for his valorous deed.
"You've done well, Mathew," Julian said, his voice carried by the wind. "You've proven your mettle today, and soon, you will carry forth the legacy of our family"
Mathew cleansed his sword from the monster's tainted blood and re-sheathed it, he couldn't shake off the feeling of disillusionment that clouded his youthful eyes.
"Father," he began, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and confusion, "is this all there is for us? To be hunters, fighting monsters day in and day out? I don't want this life."
Julian, his father, regarded him with a calm and understanding smile.
He approached Mathew, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"My son," he began, his voice steady and reassuring, "this is more than just a way of life. It's our legacy, our duty as Constantines."
"We've been the protectors and defeaters of the night. It's our family's honor," As he spoke, he pointed at the family crest, a symbol that bore the weight of centuries-old tradition and responsibility.
"But Father," Mathew protested, his young voice trembling with uncertainty, "I don't want to live in the shadows. I want something more, something beyond these endless battles."
Julian's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting the depths of his paternal love.
"You're young, Mathew," he said gently. "In time, you'll come to understand the importance of our duty."
Yet, beneath his composed demeanor, Julian felt a gnawing sense of unease. The air crackled with an unnatural energy, and the stench of dark magic hung heavy in the air.
Monsters and vampires, once kept at bay, now roamed the land more brazenly than ever before.
Julian's thoughts were clouded with worry, and he silently prayed that his son would grasp the intricacies of their duty swiftly, for the sake of England and its people.
Julian placed a reassuring hand on Mathew's shoulder. "That's enough monster hunting for today," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
Mathew released a sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his muscles dissipate.
He mustered a small smile and asked his father, "Can we visit the bazaar today, Father?"
Julian returned his son's smile, his eyes softening with paternal affection.
"Of course, my son," he said, his voice gentle. "You've done well today. You deserve a reward."
They made their way to their horses, the loyal steeds.
As they saddled their horses and began their journey toward the bustling bazaar, Julian couldn't shake off the sense of foreboding that gnawed at his instincts.
His eyes scanned the horizon once more, the vast expanse of the plains stretching out before them. He had faced his fair share of magical threats alongside Merlin, and he knew the signs. Something dark, something malevolent, loomed on the horizon.
Unbeknownst to him, a hooded figure stood in the distance, hidden in the shadows, eyes filled with great prejudice.
He watched the Constantines with a burning intensity, the hooded person sensed a threat in their presence, an obstacle to their nefarious plans.
With a swift and purposeful motion, the hooded figure hurried toward their own horse, mounted it, and rode off in the opposite direction.
The hooded figure rode hard and fast, the urgency of their mission evident in every galloping hoofbeat. After two hours of relentless riding, they arrived at a seemingly ordinary village, nestled amidst the countryside.
To the untrained eye, it appeared like any other peaceful settlement, home to around 1100 souls leading simple lives.
As the hooded figure traversed the streets of the village, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive.
Each step he took was met with an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the hurried rustling of curtains being drawn shut and doors being bolted.
The villagers, who had once thrived in their close-knit community, now shrank away from him.
It was as if the very presence of this hooded figure sent ripples of fear through the hearts of the villagers. They avoided eye contact, averting their gazes as they rushed to shield their children from the hooded figure's sight.
Parents, their protective instincts triggered by an innate sense of danger, clutched their children tightly, pulling them away from the hooded figure's path.
This village served as the perfect cover for their dark operations. Its quaint charm concealed a malevolent underbelly, a hub for those who dabbled in forbidden arts and twisted ambitions.
Once, it had been a place of worship, a sanctuary for the faithful. Now, however, its church stood deconsecrated, its sacred aura tainted by something far more sinister.
To any magic user who dared to step inside, the chapel would radiate an eerie energy, one not of human origin but something darker, more ancient, and inherently evil.
The hooded figure approached the church door and knocked in a specific pattern, a coded language known only to those initiated into the village's clandestine affairs.
Swiftly, the door creaked open, and the figure was guided inside with haste.
Once inside, the hooded figure made their way to the altar, where a person of undeniable importance stood.
He bowed deeply, a sign of respect mingled with a hint of fear. "My lord," the hooded figure whispered urgently, their voice barely audible, "the Constantines are nearby. They approach with purpose."
The leader, a shadowy figure whose true face remained concealed, regarded the news with an eerie calmness.
"Let them come," he said, his voice a low, "I do not fear them. Their interference matters little. Our plans are already in motion, and nothing will stand in our way."
As the leader gazed at the desecrated altar, a grotesque parody of religious symbolism unfolded before their eyes.
A humanoid demon from hell, writhing in agony, was nailed to the wooden structure, reminiscent of the crucifixion of Jesus.
"Kill... me..." the demon said, clearly longing for death.
The leader's eyes glinted with a fanatical fervor, his hand, bony and pale, caressed an object that clearly bore no human origin.
It was an otherworldly relic, a fragment from a realm beyond mortal comprehension. The air around it shimmered with an ethereal light, as if the very fabric of reality quivered in its presence.
His voice resonated with dark certainty as he addressed the assembled group, his words laced with a chilling determination.
"Continue the ritual as planned," he commanded, his tone unwavering. "England requires correction. Centuries of misguided rulers have led this land astray. It's time to reshape its destiny."
Gesturing toward the artifact, he explained, "This tablet is a key, a gateway to a realm untouched by our understanding. We shall summon a powerful entity from the void"
"We will bind it to our will. It will become our instrument, our weapon" His eyes gleamed with madness as he continued, his voice echoing in the desecrated chapel.
"With the power of this entity at my command, I will become god. No kingdom, no realm, will dare to challenge my might. The world will bow before me, and I will reshape it according to my vision."
"And the Constantines?" the person dared to ask, a glimmer of concern in their eyes.
The leader's eyes narrowed, his voice turning into a cold, cutting edge. "The Constantines will not be a problem," he declared, his tone final, brooking no argument. "End of discussion."
With that decree, any lingering doubts or concerns were stifled. The hooded figures, their faces obscured by shadows, nodded in unison.
"Are the preparations complete?" the leader asked, his voice now resonating with an unsettling calm.
Again, the hooded figures nodded, confirming that every step of the intricate, dark ritual had been meticulously executed.
Symbols drawn, incantations recited, and sacrifices made; the stage was set for the summoning.
"Good," the leader said, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. "Let the ritual commence."
The sun descended below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the village.
Eadric, a humble wood artisan, wiped the sweat from his brow, surveying the chairs he had meticulously crafted throughout the day.
He felt a sense of satisfaction. These chairs would fetch a good price in the city, a few hours away. With a contented sigh, he put away his tools, ready to call it a day.
As he looked out at his children playing in the fading light, their laughter carried on the evening breeze. Eadric smiled, urging them to come inside for dinner. The little ones excitedly recounted their adventures of the day, their eyes sparkling with innocence and wonder.
One of his children, eyes brimming with curiosity, asked, "Father, why can't we play near the chapel? What's inside?"
Eadric's expression turned solemn, a shadow passing over his features.
He hesitated for a moment.
Then, in a hushed voice, said, "It's not a place for children. There are things best left undisturbed. Now, come inside. It's getting late."
Despite their natural curiosity, Eadric's firm tone silenced his children's inquiries.
With a last, longing glance at the chapel in the distance, they obeyed, closing the door behind them with a resounding thunk.
Eadric, his heart heavy with unspoken fears, took one last glance at the chapel before turning away. He murmured a prayer under his breath, seeking protection from the unknown.
The smell of his wife's cooking wafted through the air, grounding him in the reality of his humble home. With a deep breath, he moved toward the welcoming glow of his family and the comforting embrace of his home, hoping to leave the unsettling thoughts behind, at least for the night.
As Eadric sat down at the rustic wooden table, a steaming bowl of bean soup before him, and a plate of delicately smoked salmon prepared by his loving wife, a sense of contentment washed over him.
The aroma of the hearty meal filled the air, and he couldn't help but smile.
Eadric's wife, Catherine, joined him at the table. They clasped hands and bowed their heads, offering a simple, heartfelt prayer.
"Thank you, dear Lord, for this food and the blessings of family," Eadric whispered, his voice filled with gratitude.
His wife nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the years of shared love and memories.
"Amen," she added softly.
As they began to eat, the warmth of the hearth and the familiar taste of her home-cooked meal enveloped them. Eadric couldn't help but speak, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. "Remember when we were just starting out, and we had so little? These meals were a feast back then."
Catherine smiled, a twinkle of fondness in her eyes. "Yes, and we were happier than we ever imagined. It's not about what we have, but who we have it with."
They shared a moment of quiet reflection, their hands still intertwined.
But then, as suddenly, an inferno of flames erupted around them.
The peaceful scene was shattered, replaced by a horrifying spectacle. The family screamed in agony as their very beings were consumed by the roaring fire.
Every household in the village erupted into flames consuming and burning all the souls residing in them.
The infernos consuming them like a feral lion that has not been fed for weeks. It was as if hell itself had been unleashed upon the villagers. The fires converged, twisting and writhing as if with a mind of their own, converging upon the church like a flame to a moth.
The flames, once wild and uncontrollable, now seemed to possess a sentient intelligence. They twisted, knit, and writhed, their scorching tendrils weaving bodies like a renaissance sculptor.
Inside the chapel, silhouettes began to take shape inside the magic circle they laid out. Emerging like specters from the void. The leader's heart raced as he beheld the first of the two entities.
The first body, her form ethereal. The flames, with an almost gentle touch, molded her figure like clay into existence.
Long, flowing strands of platinum hair materialized, cascading in waves around her. Her skin, luminescent and pale as moonlight, seemed to shimmer as if touched by starlight. The flames crafted her body with an artist's precision, carving out curves that bespoke both strength and grace.
Adorning her was a black gown woven from the very essence of the night, a garment that clung to her like a second skin. The fabric shimmered with a luster, its color akin to the deepest recesses of the night, accentuating her beauty.
The leader gazed upon her black gown, his eyes widening with a mixture of awe and lust. In this era, modesty and restraint were virtues highly regarded. It revealed just enough to kindle the flames of his desire but left enough to the imagination to drive him to madness.
His eyes traced the lines of the garment, following the contours of her body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.
The fabric clung to her form, accentuating every curve, captivating the onlookers' gaze. The gown dared to reveal more than what was customary, its neckline plunging modesty's boundaries, revealing just a hint of her skin.
The leader felt a pang of envy for the dress that embraced her, wishing he could be the fabric that caressed her skin.
The leader, awestruck, whispered to himself, "A goddess..."
Beside her, the second body, her servant took form.
The flames, with a subtle caress, sculpted her features, bringing forth an image of quiet elegance and strength.
Champagne blonde hair flowed like liquid gold, cascading over her shoulders in a cascade. Her eyes, cerulean as the boundless ocean. The flames wove her attire, conjuring a garment that seemed to blend seamlessly.
The leader gazed couldn't help but notice the peculiar attire of the servant.
In the flickering light of the flames, her attire appeared to be from another era. Its design was intricate, though unfamiliar, bore an undeniable mark of mercenary aesthetic.
Silence enveloped the deconsecrated chapel as the hooded figures, their faces masked by awe and reverence, gazed upon these beings.
Their heads bowed in acknowledgment of the power before them.
The leader found himself irresistibly drawn to the depths of the moon-haired being due to her crimson eyes.
They were like twin gems of allure and power, each gaze carrying the weight of centuries. As he stared into them, he felt an inexplicable compulsion, a force that tugged at the very core of his being, making him feel increasingly submissive and docile.
He tried to pry his gaze away, to break free from the captivating hold those eyes had on him, but it was as if an invisible chain bound him.
With every moment that passed, his sense of self slipped further away, replaced by a strange sense of surrender. It was as though her eyes held the key to his very soul.
He struggled against the enchantment, attempting to assert his will, but the crimson eyes seemed to penetrate his thought. The more he fought, the more he felt like a marionette, manipulated by strings beyond his control.
Then, a thought crossed the leader's mind, a wordless command.
"Fetch a glass of wine filled with virgin blood" he commanded, his voice firm, a strange mix of reverence and authority.
One of the hooded figures hurried away, returning moments later with a delicate crystal glass filled with crimson liquid.
The aroma of fresh blood mingled with the smoky aftermath of the ritual, creating an oddly intoxicating scent in the air.
Approaching her, the leader held out the glass to her, his hands trembling ever so slightly.
As he neared, he couldn't help but notice the intoxicating fragrance that surrounded her, a blend of chocolate and vanilla, with a subtle hint of mint. It was a scent that seemed both earthly and sweet, captivating his senses entirely.
She accepted the glass. She brought the glass to her lips, taking a cautious sip before finishing its contents in a single, elegant motion. The hooded figures, observing in silent awe, marveled at her poise and beauty.
With the last drop of blood consumed, the goddess lowered the glass.
The leader's thoughts, his ambitions, his very essence, all seemed to fade into the background, replaced by a deep, overwhelming sense of subservience.
He had forgotten his purpose, the grand design to harness her power for his own ends. His desire for dominion, for godhood, was eclipsed by an insatiable urge to serve, to kneel and fulfill her every whim.
She had enslaved him with a mere glance of her ruby eyes.
His voice, once commanding and confident, wavered as he spoke, "I... I am yours to command.."
He lowered his head, his once defiant posture now one of humble submission.
The hooded figures, realizing the significance of this moment, dropped to their knees in profound reverence and followed his lead, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and devotion.
In his attempt to control, he had become the controlled.
