Freezing rain slanted down, clattering off the pristine armour of the guards. The metal and hardened leather of their breastguards glistened; their blades were sharp, tips pointed to the ground in preparation for the battle to come. Water wove its way down the silvered weapons. Each of the five individuals stood tall. They breathed deeply, and stared out to await their demise.
They were cathar; holy warriors. Trained and honed to battle the dead and twisted monstrosities that inhabited Innistrad. The duty of every one of them tonight was to protect the township of Mahone, and despite the overwhelming hordes already streaming through the storm-slick streets, they would fight to their last. They would die, but, by the name of Avacyn, they would extort such a toll in the process.
Amongst them stood Dominic Whitewater. He was not the senior of the group, but his blue eyes had a hardness to them that was not from birth, but battle. He was six feet tall, broad shouldered, and with battle hardened skin sporting a small patter of criss-crossed scars beneath his metal breastplate. He had thick brown hair, long enough that he had to tie it back to make sure it did not crowd the corners of his vision, but the rain running down from his eyebrows toward his chin did so, anyway. He had the easy, fluid motion of a trained man, never wasting effort when he need not.
His leather gloved hand shifted and fastened around the hilt of his blade. A simple, long weapon, nicked with use. There were a few smaller blades about his body, strapped to his waist, across his chest, and into the side of his boot, and a slightly mix-matched combination of leather and metal armour that protected his vitals, but gave him free movement.
"Is that a trick of the light, or..." Asked Winton, at Dominic's side. The other man shook his head.
"No. It is not. They're coming." He growled lowly, and, as one, they brought their blades up into a more combat ready stance.
"Hold fast. If we fall, those last souls we guard will be out of chances." It was the grizzled, bestubbled veteran in the middle. He spat to one side, the offering lost in the rain. "We stand against every damned one of 'em."
The shadows broke around the onslaught of figures, but it did so late into their charge. The fast-moving vampires were barely twenty feet away, and they moved fast; inhumanly fast. Some ran low to the ground, as though doubled over but running at full pace, while others soared a few feet from the ground.
Dominic and his companions had a few moments to watch the horrible contortions of the oncoming enemies. As far as Dominic was concerned, vampires were the most repulsive creatures on Innistrad. Werewolves were monstrous, the undead were disgusting, and demons horrific... But none of these abominations matched the gruesomeness that were the vampires. They had perfect, pale-skinned faces, with prominent cheeks and slender, fine features. They were often beautiful, regal humans, and that was what made them turn Dominic's stomach. Now, in the onset of battle, their features were twisted. Their lips were drawn back over wicked fangs, long claws had replaced their natural nails, and they moved with more speed than any human should possess. Their movements were twisting and unreal, and to see a human act like the most depraved of monsters... Dominic loathed them.
The two sides clashed: the men bringing their swords down as the vampires darted this way and that. They were trying to use their speed to find an opening or the slightest of gaps to sink their fangs into. Dom's first swipe found purchase and the creature recoiled with a gutteral hiss, but his second slipped narrowly wide of the creatures. Claws raked his arms, leaving a searing series of scores in his skin. He cut another with his backslash, but at his side his companion was swallowed by a mass of wickedness that seemed to simply envelop Dom's battle brother.
The vampires were many. The cathar were trained, and valiant, but, one by one, they were driven back, or overwhelmed. Dominic felt his shoulders hit the wall. His sword arm ached and throbbed with the deep cuts, and he had a few smaller wounds to add to it. The vampires were darting in and out of range, waiting for him to tire, and laughing with oddly melodic voices whenever he tried to swipe at one. His blade cut through the night when they surged forward, but they coiled back. They were playing with him. He was trapped. Bleeding. A sea of death was before him, and a stone wall behind him. His friends had fallen, the innocents he'd tried to protect would fall...
Dominic cursed the damned creatures in a low mutter to nobody in particular. If this was his end - he thought to himself, feeling grim fury clutch at his head - then they would pay dearly. With a grim resolve he doubted that he would survive, so all that remained was to slay as many of them as he could. Perhaps he would save one or two townsfolk in the process.
Dom set his jaw, brought his weapon up, and rushed them. He sliced left and right and felt, with a grim, morbid satisfaction, his sword cut into one of the monsters each time. He spun, to use it to bat away a swiping arm and let another rake across the metal shoulder guard. For a moment it was a dance, and wherever the silver of his blade spun a vampire screeched and recoiled backward.
But all dances come to an end. A blow caught the side of his head and he staggered to the ground stunned, head spinning. In a heartbeat, they were on him, a sea of assassins, ripping, tearing...
There was a bright light, bright enough to sear his eyes. He felt a lurch, and knew that he was dying. Everything burned, everything was brilliant... And he was torn from Innistrad, sent lurching from the only plane he'd ever known. He tumbled, aimlessly, through the void between planes. He had a fleeting moment to realise, in shock, that his spark had flared, and that he was a Planeswalker now...
And then he crashed down into something that felt far harder than it was. Darkness stole over him. Perhaps, death would claim him after all.