Siege of the Citadel. Legacy of Kain based.
Edrick sat. Sat on his little wooden stool in the raised tower, ready to operate the gates. It was a dull job, nothing much to do, but he told himself 'It's for the good of the Citadel!' and to an extent he was right. If the towering drawbridge was to fall, they would get in. He hated them, as did all the humans. Well, not all the humans. There were those that worshipped them, saw them as 'dark gods' or something ridiculous. They were ruthless animals. They used to look like people, or so the tales went. Edrick found that hard to believe. How could these disgusting beasts once have looked human? You could never tell, really. New ones weren't made often, people were just torn to shreds, but when they weren't, when they were taken away and…'reborn', they never emerged until after they'd changed. Something to do with the traitor, Raziel, cast into the abyss he was. Why? Who knows? Who cares? The only important thing is surviving, surviving the night.
But Edrick sat. Sat by the cogs and the gears and the leavers. Sat next to the switches that kept the Citadel safe. But were they safe? The little monster-hailers had tunnels…tunnels in, tunnels out. Their priestess lived in the sewers, so the drunks said. They couldn't get through though. Too much to hinder them. Water, shafts of light, bursts of flame. Stupid buggers, left outside of the moat. Edrick laughed. They were stuck in the wasteland for gods sakes!…well, maybe they were too much beasts too care.
Yet still he sat. The night shift. When the big ones came out. Still, the most they could do, some of them, anyway, was fire…blue air…well, that's what it looked like to Edrick. The big-eared bastards. They didn't come close too often. The only ones Edrick caught sight of were the little green ones, the ones with the big gobs. The Dumahim. Edrick laughed to himself again. Dumah was dead, therefore, his clan should…could…might die too. Sometimes the fishies, the little fishies, tried to get in through the moat, couldn't do it though. Big spinning fans were too much for the Rahabim. Too bad none of them were smart enough to grow wings, eh!?
And he sat. Observing the flickering flame, burning from the torch hung on the wall. Flame, they didn't like it. Burned them to a crisp. They may have outgrown Sunlight, Rainfall, Snow, but not fire. No way. The Flamethrowers saw to it that nesting spots round the cliffs were torched. Even those small missions could be death…He often opened the gates for those going out, but rarely for those coming in. They went out, they explored, sometimes they even got quite far, took out some big targets, but they rarely returned. They'd have to be constantly moving, never camping, and never sleeping. Poor sods. Who would join the Vampire Resistance? They weren't really Hunters, just a resistance…No one even volunteered to man the little alcove opposite the bridge anymore. Massacred in the night, every time. Edrick had heard it happen more than once. Horror it was…
He yawned, he scratched, and he sat…but wait. What was that? The clanking of armour, the muffled sound of voices. Edrick wasn't sitting anymore. He got up and dashed to the balcony, there it was. A few torches, moving across the moat's bank. Not them. Definitely not them. They didn't carry torches, they didn't wear full armour. A gruff voice yelled up from down below
"Open the gates, boy!"
It seemed to quaver in the middle, but Edrick pulled his levers all the same. Turned the wheel, pushed the pressure valve. Over all the clanking, churning, whirring of the drawbridge, Edrick did not hear the muffled yelps, sounds of ripping flesh, and dull clanking thuds, as the now lifeless bodies of the Vampire Hunters fell to the ground…
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