Post by Focus on Aug 5, 2009 5:00:15 GMT
For hundreds of years, the Classic Werewolves that roam London’s underbelly have used the races above to slake their unending hunger. Thousands have disappeared beneath the sewer gates; they did not survive their encounter.
Some, however, have.
A new breed of Werewolf - one concerned only with rage and malice - is born. He is a slave to the moon’s cycle and to his own desires for vengeance. It was the Classics who created him, and it is the Classics who will disburse this unpaid bill.
Three leaders have risen from the dispersed packs of wild dogs called the DL Werewolves. Elijah, their mastermind, is at the head of this operation, and together with his still-Human-wife he places naught but safety of tactics and planning within this mission of vengeance. Lysander is the groups powerhouse. His Classic Vampire blood has not dulled since his transformation into a DL Werewolf, and it is this guile and thrill that drive him to gather an army aimed at shaking his enemies from their repose. Their last, and most gentle of generals, is Lorianna, a Familiar turned savage by the Classic’s bite. Together, they’ve gathered friends of violence to lay waste to those who’ve destroyed their idyllic lives.
This collection of unmanageable hybrids called themselves the Canis Cruor: the dog blood.
But the Classic Werewolves have not been idle.
Within London’s bowels, an army of equal intensity is turning in its mother’s womb. Three distinct leaders have emerged, each bringing with them the bulk of savagery that flows from their injurious race. Jeremiah, their founder plans to bring upon the Revolutionary DLs a chastisement from which they cannot recover. From the London Underground Jeremiah has brought with him his comrade Theodore, whose abundant adoration of life clouds perhaps his military mind but not his conscience. Under their watchful eye sits the Sangral ambassador, Dahlia; she brings into this conflict the calm wisdom of her people and their numbers to the Classic militia.
And these beasts of tribal war carved upon them the name Erus Vena: the masters of blood.
The lines have been drawn and terms of victory drafted. The Sapiens-based races of London hunker with clenched fists and swollen tongues as their brothers square off under the autumn sun. Whichever side builds ranks the quickest shall survive, but whose diplomacy shall the scum of London follow?