"You really think I'm a leashed animal, do you really think I'm a slave to my master's will? I could have left many moons ago, many hundreds of years. You're part of a blood rite to your master's family, you have little choice in what you do or what you think. You follow blindly with little care for the world around you. In fact you rarely care at all, except your baser instincts and your own petty, selfish existence. I am very much aware of the world around me and I am very much obliged to live my own life within it. I chose this path, you were forced; the narrow minded 'thing' you are. You get servitude, I get paid."
Knight Captain Andrew Wrathwell, Knight Templar and leader of Squad Hermes (Nightwatch Division, First Guard, 90th legion of her Majesty the Queen, Black Berets 2nd Class, Scyre Level Individuals). First true recorded encounter with the vampire Alucard (1952)
The heavy rain had permeated every surface of the city of London as the clouds wheeled high above the city, their vast surfaces unbroken, except for the deeper patches which covered the sky in cracks. The taller shapes of the buildings which reared up from the wet earth were like fangs tearing at the sky, their sides glistening in the torrential downpour which had most people running for shelter in the many cafes and shops which had sprung up along the streets. It was a winter to spend, most shop owners had discovered, their stores full of shoppers, all trying to escape the rain outside.
Only the gargoyles braved the elements and sat in their high perches, the lonely vigils forever unchanging, however much the rest of the world warped around them. The Gargoyles of London were unarguably a rather quiet bunch, their stone skins catching most of the moisture as they glared down onto the streets below. Their claws were well embedded into the stone work allowing their, dragon like or wolf like or vaguely obscure visages to lean ever so further forward to, as ever, nosy on the world rolling by below.
Like the policemen that shivered on each corner, the gargoyles were ever watchful, their stony eyes always open. Even though unmoving, the more sensitive individuals, those with their third eye open may have had the slight impression that they were been watched, permanently.
Especially within the Hellsing Mansion, where several wolfish gargoyles seem to be in different positions each day, disturbingly wherever the most activity was occurring. Whenever Arthur Hellsing, who was rather unnerved by their stony watchers, tried to have them removed, they were usually impossible to find.
A steam boat pitched in the grey waters of the Thames, its Captain sealed in the wood and glass box of the bridge, the London bridge opening slowly as the many metal surfaces ran with water which was gurgling from the drains into the river far below. It was admitted that the weather was especially unusual, especially by the American Tourists who wandered the ornate galleries of the Houses of Parliament. However, as those who frequented the many cafes said, it is Britain.
This to some was a pretty holy word. For Britain itself stood on many Ley lines, where power meets and builds below the ancient streets. This small damp isle was home to more then just Humankind which the rest of the world usually forgot. As Britain remained behind in some of its traditional values, the world moved on and slowly forgot the Old Worlds.
The city murmured and grumbled to itself as the morning wore on, the streets full with cars and the paths full of people, heads bowed, eyes blinkered to those around them as they sprinted on, their bags full of shopping and their heads full of garbage. Unlike past times, now the general population of England were very good at denying problems exist and will go to any length to either solve it quickly, with little fuss or, in most cases, avoid the possibility that there was something wrong.
Some would call it optimism, most would call it ignorance. Like Magic, for example, and that great beyond. That was reserved for fanatics, idiots, Hippies or a fusion of the two, religious followers and spiritualists with more time then sense and a lack of money with whole load of empty air which is always cringingly quiet when they attempt to change the mind of the masses especially on live TV.
Frauds or not, some have a point. For some of the wanderers far below, it would have made their day to look up into the rain filled sky and see the Gargoyles who were not funnelling water or glaring but instead were, in fact, playing cards.
The ones who sat upon the vast bulk of Saint Paul's were an extremely interesting bunch and spent their days playing chess, a rather interesting pastime seeing as most didn't own a chess board. Or were addicted to espionage as with those who occupied the Hellsing rooftops. Sir Hellsing had always wondered who paid them…
Magic had already been a fascination of most of the older population. The belief that there was more to life then the mundane. A belief there was a lot more going on behind the scenes. Humans always had an aptitude for this, their own imaginations fuelling their almost inane belief that there was more to life then this. Hellsing knew, in fact, Hellsing was only too aware. It existed and it had fangs, large ones. Sadly Hellsing dealt with more 'lame' adversaries. Vampires or Vampyres in olde English were more the bug bears of the real world, each struggling to keep up with the modern world and loosing all honour and power in the process.
Freaks, the easiest name for these upstarts, Freaks. Not like the ancient Madness of the Count of the Vampires but new upstarts who believed they'd been given the world but had no idea about what lurked 'beyond' and their lives were about to be cut short. So Count Vlad craved more, growing more powerful as again and again he was sent out to destroy the younger ones of his race. He became a soldier, a Dog under the command of Hellsing, with no true purpose except to follow. So Hellsing fielded their trained vampires and believed that world was all well and good and they were doing an all round 'good thing'.
But there was so much more living in the deepest forest, living in the highest points of the sky and darkest ocean. There were things long forgotten in myth who wandered the paths and roads of this world, their hearts dark as the world slowly forgot them. People always disappeared into the dark, things still went bump in the night and strange lights would flicker along the coasts, each a desperate reminder from the old world, to tell us that it still existed.
There were always the individuals however, who were well aware of the old world and for some, were connected to it in some tenuous way. But after several un-recorded events, where large occult activities, several bloody rituals took place where the old gods found their attentions dragged back to this lone world, especially during the World Wars, it was deemed necessary that Britain need a defence against the old Nightmares. And the best way to face off a horde of monsters? With your own large horde of Monsters.
Better reach for an old teddy bear you had as a child, close the curtains, scatter salt over your shoulder, find some mistletoe and hope the night ends quickly. And a get book of Grimm's Fairy Tales too, the old nightmares are returning and I think its wise you checked under your bed, there may be something waiting for you….
Red cloth, sodden in the rain, fluttered heavily, its thick folds struggling to shift the hanging water. The floppy brim of the wide hat moved in the breeze as glinting orange spectacles caught the half light from the nearby street lamps. It wasn't too uncomfortable for the vampire, the day light hours were exhausting but the sun wasn't able to bathe the world now meaning it was perfect weather for some.
Walter pulled the thick black overcoat tighter around his aging form, hair pulled back in a tight pony tail as his once youthful face began to show some signs of aging. He was thirty years old and cold, extremely cold. They'd been stood there most the morning, watching the squabbling gargoyles high above on the sides of Saint Paul's Cathedral. It had been a long task, Arthur had personally ordered it, his face strained as he cradled the cooing, gurgling baby in his arms, his cigars ignored for one day as the man struggled to care for the child, Integra.
To Walter, it was a strange name compared to the string of 'usual' names which had come before, it spoke of aristocracy and honour, something which had been somewhat ignored by the Hellsing ancestors, Alucard had never really given his thoughts on the issue and was instead, busying himself with other menial chores, massacring the current ghoul population scattered across London.
The child seemed to bring a certain sadness to the Count, seeing how long each family member lived, it probably meant another hundred years servitude under another family head until the next came along. Alucard may have wanted to be free at one point. For now, however, the future seemed to follow one strict path. The long years he'd spent under Arthur's command were taking their toll. Even soldiers or dogs struggle to be unpredictable.
He was becoming a killing machine, something most of the Hellsings' thought he revelled in. But the power was gone, and the once effortless seduction and romance had disappeared, now replaced by madness, which Walter feared, would become worse as each year wore on.
Alucard was gone in a flurry of rain drops as the large cathedral loomed above them. Walter could sense his boredom, the same caged animal once again struggling in its cage as the blood rites holding Alucard in his current form struggled against his dark will.
There seemed a scent in the air however, a bitter tang which covered the streets in an unseen mist. Alucard knew it was there and it seemed to weigh on the vampire's mind. The bitter tang of change perhaps. Alucard wasn't one for metaphors, been brutal and to the point on many occasions, but he couldn't shake the feeling, which was strange for the ageless being, that things were moving beyond the veil of reality. But there was something waiting just beyond the doors of that Vast cathedral that waited for him. The vampire was up the steps, hurrying toward the cathedral as the dark whirled high above, the rain speeding up as the wind howled.
Something was coming, Walter realised as he sprinted after the hurrying vampire, he could feel the tang on the wind, something vast and beyond the sky was coming and he most certainly did not like it. It wasn't coming now, the surge in the air was too weak, but it was almost here, and Walter hoped his soul would have left this world by the time it arrived.
Anyway, at present his real quarry was several metres away, passing through the arch into the space beyond, the blood red coat disappearing from view.
The large blade rang with the file as the wetstone was dragged along its curved length. Spark rippled from its carved surface and onto the holder's lap where it was laid. The wielder paused, mid sharpen and raised his head to the high, arched ceiling, brown hair flopping back.
A smile rose upon his lips as he resumed sharpening, the noise echoing down the halls and vast space of the inside of Saint Paul's. Alucard paused mid stride, his face set in a hideous snarl as he took in the single man mounted on the altar steps, sharpening the massive War Scythe resting on his knees.
"You…"