[HEADING=1]The Vampire Earth[/HEADING]
[h4]Possessed of an unnatural hunger, the bloodthirsty Reapers have come to Earth to establish a New Order built on the harvesting of human souls. They rule the planet. And if it is night, as sure as darkness, they will come...[/h4]
"I have also remarked, fellow-soldiers, that such as are eager in the field to preserve their lives at any rate, for the most part perish wretchedly and ignominiously, while I see that such as reflect that death is to all men common and inevitable, and seek in battle only to fall with honour, more frequently, from whatever cause, arrive at old age, and live, while they live, with greater happiness." - Xenophon Anabasis
The Great Plains, March of the forty-fifth year of the Kurian Order: Only the bones of a civilisation remain, monuments to mankind's apogee. Nature and time gnaw away the rest. Derricks still stand in this corner of oil country, giant iron insects surveying the countryside. Beneath them, the pumps rust, scattered in the long yellowish grass like metal herbivores, snouts thrust into the earth. The former wheat fields, fallow for generations and returned to native forest or prairie, feed longhorns, deer and canny wild pigs. It is a land of receding horizons, a stopped watch, timeless.
The idle chatter of the towns garrison fills the air, talks of previous deeds in battle and drinks earned float around, casual chatter of war-weary soldiers. Horse drawn carts are pulled along the street, leaving trails in the thick mud, water soaking the tarnished wood. The guard watches as your group passes through the main road, silent whispers breeze through the crowed and nervous glances shift around the scenery. Ahead of you a large eight-teenth century mansions stands, the white-washed wood rotting on the front porch and a layer of rot climbing up the old battered door. As you approach, the two guards stand aside and motion for you to enter, opening the door with a creak.
Inside, the smell of cigar smoke washes over your senses and the faint smell of mold tickles at you. The quiet murmur of chatter escapes from a door and you make your way towards it. Opening reveals a large room, possibly a master bedroom, covered in maps and sheets of paper. Logistics officers dart around the room shuffling paper and dull chatter spurts from the radio sets. Sat on the opposite side of the table a large, powerful man sits. His leathery skin lined with wrinkles and a light dusting of grey hair dances across his chin. As he looks up he smiles at the sight of you. Taking his old cowboy boots off of the table he sits forwards, huge powerful arms resting on the table.
"So, this is it." He says, smiling. His eye's dart from each of you almost as if he's silently reviewing every aspect of you. He scratches at his stubble for several seconds before taking a deep breath. "We got an operation, classified and all that other malarkey...I'm sure you've heard it before. Just don't go chatting to the militia about it righ'?" He says, standing and moving to your side of the table, a large map of the old United States covering much of it's surface. Various markers placed about. "Before anything, I'm Colonel Rohne, pleased to meet you an all tha'. Now, to business. We've been hearing reports of a new organization working out on the border counties. This ain't regular Quisling soldiers. They come fast and quiet. Whole towns disappear, with only this symbol left." He places a small carved piece of wood upon the table. A cross, skewed and at an angle drawn onto it. "It's a swastika, a symbol from the old world. Used by some very bad people. We've never encountered this before, but the reports are...terrifying. Reapers using fire-arms." He pauses and lets this sink in. "I don't have to tell you the seriousness of this, damn an unarmed reaper can chew through a platoon of wolves in seconds, I don't even want to think about an armed reaper. We've got news of a recent border town going dark up north. Just off the ol' 35 into Iowa. I want you to figure out what this is." There's a long pause while he looks over you all. "You won't be alone on this, Once you've got what you need head over to the North Gate, Major Rourke will meet you there. Good luck Hunters." With that he motions to the door and turns back to the map.
Back outside the sun has risen, casting it's light over the little town. The Warmth licks at your faces. Various soldiers are patrolling the land and standing guard at the gates of the town.
[h4]Possessed of an unnatural hunger, the bloodthirsty Reapers have come to Earth to establish a New Order built on the harvesting of human souls. They rule the planet. And if it is night, as sure as darkness, they will come...[/h4]
"I have also remarked, fellow-soldiers, that such as are eager in the field to preserve their lives at any rate, for the most part perish wretchedly and ignominiously, while I see that such as reflect that death is to all men common and inevitable, and seek in battle only to fall with honour, more frequently, from whatever cause, arrive at old age, and live, while they live, with greater happiness." - Xenophon Anabasis
The Great Plains, March of the forty-fifth year of the Kurian Order: Only the bones of a civilisation remain, monuments to mankind's apogee. Nature and time gnaw away the rest. Derricks still stand in this corner of oil country, giant iron insects surveying the countryside. Beneath them, the pumps rust, scattered in the long yellowish grass like metal herbivores, snouts thrust into the earth. The former wheat fields, fallow for generations and returned to native forest or prairie, feed longhorns, deer and canny wild pigs. It is a land of receding horizons, a stopped watch, timeless.
The idle chatter of the towns garrison fills the air, talks of previous deeds in battle and drinks earned float around, casual chatter of war-weary soldiers. Horse drawn carts are pulled along the street, leaving trails in the thick mud, water soaking the tarnished wood. The guard watches as your group passes through the main road, silent whispers breeze through the crowed and nervous glances shift around the scenery. Ahead of you a large eight-teenth century mansions stands, the white-washed wood rotting on the front porch and a layer of rot climbing up the old battered door. As you approach, the two guards stand aside and motion for you to enter, opening the door with a creak.
Inside, the smell of cigar smoke washes over your senses and the faint smell of mold tickles at you. The quiet murmur of chatter escapes from a door and you make your way towards it. Opening reveals a large room, possibly a master bedroom, covered in maps and sheets of paper. Logistics officers dart around the room shuffling paper and dull chatter spurts from the radio sets. Sat on the opposite side of the table a large, powerful man sits. His leathery skin lined with wrinkles and a light dusting of grey hair dances across his chin. As he looks up he smiles at the sight of you. Taking his old cowboy boots off of the table he sits forwards, huge powerful arms resting on the table.
"So, this is it." He says, smiling. His eye's dart from each of you almost as if he's silently reviewing every aspect of you. He scratches at his stubble for several seconds before taking a deep breath. "We got an operation, classified and all that other malarkey...I'm sure you've heard it before. Just don't go chatting to the militia about it righ'?" He says, standing and moving to your side of the table, a large map of the old United States covering much of it's surface. Various markers placed about. "Before anything, I'm Colonel Rohne, pleased to meet you an all tha'. Now, to business. We've been hearing reports of a new organization working out on the border counties. This ain't regular Quisling soldiers. They come fast and quiet. Whole towns disappear, with only this symbol left." He places a small carved piece of wood upon the table. A cross, skewed and at an angle drawn onto it. "It's a swastika, a symbol from the old world. Used by some very bad people. We've never encountered this before, but the reports are...terrifying. Reapers using fire-arms." He pauses and lets this sink in. "I don't have to tell you the seriousness of this, damn an unarmed reaper can chew through a platoon of wolves in seconds, I don't even want to think about an armed reaper. We've got news of a recent border town going dark up north. Just off the ol' 35 into Iowa. I want you to figure out what this is." There's a long pause while he looks over you all. "You won't be alone on this, Once you've got what you need head over to the North Gate, Major Rourke will meet you there. Good luck Hunters." With that he motions to the door and turns back to the map.
Back outside the sun has risen, casting it's light over the little town. The Warmth licks at your faces. Various soldiers are patrolling the land and standing guard at the gates of the town.
