Location: Pražský hrad- Prague, Czech Republic
Time: 0137 Hours

The night air of the City of a Hundred Spires was crisp and clear, a far cry from the sky, which had much of the natural light of a three-quarters full moon hidden behind cloud cover.  High up in the air, there was the scent of threatening rain, and the atmosphere certainly seemed primed, but for now there was merely an irritating dampness that hung on the tiered and ancient city.  The lower levels, each resplendent and vibrant in the daylight, were reduced to murky and drab shapes only intermittently brightened by a few lights from business or houses, or the occasional baroque-styled street lamp along the aged, cobble-paved streets and bridges.

The higher up the city one went, along the winding and narrow streets, the smaller and more spaced each spot of light and color became until from the Pražský hrad- the Prague Castle Quarter- at the peak of the greatest hill in the city, the city's lights were like a facsimile of the heavens- tiny pinpricks of light only seen intermittently across a haze of black, and reflected upon the dark waters the city spanned.  The city's titular spires and cathedrals were reduced to nearly invisible silhouettes, vague finger or claw-like shapes that stuck up jarringly all across the landscape, adding some sense of verticality in the sloping terrain.

Long since closed for the day, the Castle Quarter's gates were locked, and the walls mounted with monitoring systems all designed to keep intruders, vandals, and would-be thieves out of the pride of the Czech Republic's grand city.  And save for a strange, unpleasant stench that had begun permeating the entire place and slowly had replaced the scent of rain and water, pouring down into the streets, all appeared calm and normal.  But that smell. . .it was the smell of rotted flesh, of decayed corpses.

The first sign of his presence was always a marked drop in the temperature.  For the city of Prague, the moisture condensed into a fine mist along the streets and frosted over on building roofs and streetlamps, with glass and light fixtures getting a smattering of ice that lingered for a moment.  By the time the GAWIN had lowered itself through the clouds and gotten to what would allow its passenger a stealthy drop down onto the roof of a building that had been pointed out, the city's overall climate had dropped by at least four degrees celsius.  Once he'd paid his transport and dropped from it's back onto the roof, the temperature had dropped further.

When his boots hit the roof and he rolled to a knee, tendrils of ice had spread out from the point of impact and pooled out from him, slowly beginning to turn the metal brittle.  Reaching for his hat out of habit, the gloved and clawed hand stopped when it's owner remembered what he had done with it.  It settled for reaching into one of the three military grade bags and packs it had brought and pulling out wrapped object that was revealed to be the scope of a high-caliber rifle.  The other hand finished sending a brief text to a kitsune, and put the phone back into the pocket of a coat the figure wore.  As he settled the scope to and eye, the second sign of his presence began to counter the stench that had infected the city: a more coppery scent mingled with a far different sort of decay.  The scent of death, starvation, and a predator.

Mister Winter had come to Prague.

A church bell rings throughout the city as though to welcome the hunter. While they look about it becomes clear that the streets are dead; with not even the local night life to be seen. Even more unsettling, among the miasmic stench there is a hint of something sweet that stings Johns nose. Honey?
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:11, Thu 18 June 2020.

The sounds of the church bell were drowned out by a very cocky-sounding Korean telling his audience to "Ah ha ha yeah BBC follow me," and "Bounce like this eh eh," and for good measure, the Windigo upped the volume on his device and then stored it.  The undercurrent of sweetness in the warring scents that had engulfed the scent got him to frown and scrunch his nose in slight displeasure as he began his traditional reconnaissance.

The roofs and windows of his immediate surrounding were swept with the impromptu spyglass which, combined with the sudden flash freeze that his very presence caused, made anything metal, glass, or other stand out thanks to the fresh frost and the input from his sense of smell, provided the bounty hunter with all the information he needed about his immediate presence and security.  He turned his attention then to the most likely source of the bells; the massive, iconic Cathedral that loomed over the Czech city from the Castle and Palace districts.  Metropolitní katedrála svatého Víta, Václava a Vojtěcha, or something, a portion of his mind reflected as he focused in on the structure and began rapidly adjusting and refocusing the scope to zoom in and out on various portions of St. Vito's for anything of interest.  Roofs and spires, the doors and other entrances, the plaza. . .then up to the bell tower itself.

Satisfied finally, the Windigo finally stood back up, albeit at a crouch, and carefully stowed the scope.  He pulled his extra cargo, the canvas sack and long bag he had brought with, to himself, and with nary a sound, flitted to another roof, this one letting him scout the public gate and guard posts that protected conventional entry to the Castle grounds.  The only evidence of his presence he left were the brittle, weakened and aged metal, and the rime of frost.  The latter continued to spread for a moment longer before finally ceasing and starting to vanish.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:04, Sat 06 June 2020.

It came as no surprise to where the nachtzehrer was hiding, if they were hiding at all. Had they become confident? Or just dumb. Having been in the business for far too long, it was always both. Despite the darkened state of the city, the cathedral remained as an architectural wonder. With lancet windows dimly lit from the inside, showing just enough of the gothic structure and its many decorative figures.

Unfortunately it was at this point, that the sweetened stench had become engrossingly pungent. The sting having reached the eyes making it hard for the hunter to see. Now reaching the triple doorway, John could hear the deafened sound of the bell. Was it a warning? A way to tell that his presence was known? Good.

Pushing open the bronze doors, the hunter was flooded in reddened color. The windows-- upon inspection-- stained with both a dry and fresh coat of blood. Ahead laid a string of coffins leading up to the southern window, with images depicting that of the Last Judgement. How typical.

Eyes narrowed from the sting, and with the stench clearly trying to suppress his sense of smell, appeal to the hunger that was even now tearing into his mental faculties, or both, the Hunter forced himself- with difficulty- to take a step backwards from the obvious trap.  Even as the hunger gnawed at him and the temperature dropped further in tandem with his flaring instincts, the grounds cracking with rimes of frost, he purposely stopped breathing for a moment, and reached into two pouches on his harness.

The first thing he pulled out was a small ovaloid canister, which he held very carefully in a clawed hand, trying his best to focus on keeping the nails from growing in length further.  The second was a wrapped packet, which without even trying to open, he simply bit into and then devoured in a fraction of a second.  The soft sounds of tearing cloth and meat, likely a jerky of some kind were the only sounds to permeate the air around the Windigo for a brief time, as the refrain of the track he had on played.  His breathing was still increasingly erratic, but his posture straightened with the brief influx of a very specific kind of meal and nutrients, long enough for him to quickly dash his now free hand back into the pouches, and pull out something, a canister of some sort.  He hurriedly brought it to his mouth, popped it open, and downed it.

It took another several seconds, but his breathing began to level out, and his nails ceased trying to grow any longer than a standard razor.  It took another moment, but with a bit more focus, they returned to their normal, only slightly bestial length, and he could finally open the canister.  Within it lay what appeared to be a folded up set of goggles, something out of World War II or the Cold War Era. He daintily pulled them out, and then carefully tied them around his head, the bands quickly hidden under the mess of hair, which had similarly been effected by the frost that poured from him.

With them on, he finally was able to see clearly again, and took out one more package, which he hastily ate.  As he did so, the canister was deposited, freeing up both hands, which busied themselves.  One of his pistols was drawn, and a magazine of ammunition, labeled in a strange language and with distinctly different colored heads, was loaded, along with a long Amerindian blade, a strange sheen or coating along it.  Carefully holding it with the same hand as his pistol, he reached into his backpack, and pulled out three more small objects, placing them within easy reach in a pouch.  He then transferred the blade back to his off-hand, and stepped in, the blood on the windows freezing over as he did.

"Couldn't ya at least try an' be creative?" He drawled as he entered, looking at the coffins the same way a human might look at an ant.  "Even with yer li'l stench, I c'n still smell ya.  An' yer not impressin' anyone wi' yer allegory there.  Last Judgement's th' single most overused fuckin' image I have to see wi' every ambush."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:26, Tue 07 July 2020.

“Am...bush?” A shallowed voice rung out from behind and over the hunters head. Standing on top of a balcony, swaying left to right, was the faintest silhouette of a man. “It’s...silly...isn’t it?” They asked. “Human faith. I believe...I may have...partook in such foolishness at one time.” They pause to take a rasped breath. “Apologies...for the...mess. I am...almost done.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:14, Wed 11 Nov 2020.

The figure didn't even get to finish it's apology and explanation before a loud crack drowned out the rest of the words, echoing throughout the antechamber.  The initial roar was followed by another three, all turning the resonance qualities of the beautiful chapel into what could charitably be called the detonation of small artillery fire in terms of volume.  With each bark and blast, the bounty hunter's pistol fired off a round, the bullets cast from melted down Germanic silver coins flying right towards the figure at sonic speeds.  Two were for the center of mass, two were for the head, but they were still on their trajectory as the marksman himself once again seemingly shifted from reality again, that same seeming impossible speed carrying him skywards, towards the balcony.  The blade, coated in the same metal as the bullets, would have glinted in any light present. . .were it even traceable.

“Why are...you...here?” The voice heard once again, this time directly behind John. Now in plain sight, the hunter, once spun around would see a hunched humanoid like creature. With dark eyes, long spindly arms, and sharp protruding fangs. Their skin looked almost translucent, as though stretched too thin over its own bones. “You also...benefit...yes?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:15, Wed 11 Nov 2020.

The frost was already spreading across the balcony by the time he touched down.  With his quarry in plain sight, it was far easier to train the gun on it's vitals.  Even as the smell continued to permeate the entire structure, even as the malformed creature spoke, he kept the blade raised alongside the pistol in his other hand.


John shook his head slightly.  Why did they so frequently think that he gained something out of what they were doing?  As if them somehow breaking the laws and causing problems for the general populace of Limbo was some sort of gift.  The only thing he ever got out of it was pay.  And a meal.

"Makin' a mess in th' mundy realm big enough ta cause problems in Limbo doesn't benefit anyone.  What, ya think makin' a city into a buffet won't cause th' humans ter panic an' notice spooks is s'posed ta make us happy?  We sh'd be grateful that we've already got it bad, an' now we've gotta keep another eye over our shoulders?"

"Ain't here ta pontificate, Cherow.  Ya got two options: quiet, easy, an' alive, or loud an' messy."  Were the bounty to know who he was, it would already be clear that this was a courtesy.  And not one to be taken lightly.

The Cherow takes a harsh breath. "We...can not...go on like this. Many...starving. Must...make...sacrifices."

An elongated hand now motions to the caskets, where the honeyed scent is most pungent.

"Loud an' messy it is."  As far as the hunter was concerned, negotiations were over.  He demonstrated this with a quick squeeze of the trigger of his pistol, rapidly firing off three of the silver rounds he had loaded and aimed for the center of mass of the other spook, while the hand with the knife in it moved rapidly for another pouch, collected another type of canister, this one far larger and marked with a series of three adjacent diamonds, one blue, one red, and one yellow.  On the blue and red, there was a "4," and on the yellow there was a "2."

Falling back and landing on their hands, the vampire dodges the bullets. Their head turned 180 to face John as they skitter up behind one of the nearby pillars. While they do fangs dig into the Cherows own tongue, with blood and spit soon rained on top of the hunter. The mixture melting through whatever it touches with a loud hiss, acid.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:59, Wed 07 Sept 2022.

The rounds kicked up dust and shattered plaster as they dug into the wall and pillars.  Another two were fired ahead of the scrabbling spook, either to hit and wound him or corral the vampire away from the edge of the balcony.  The canister the hunter had pulled out was hurled into the desecrated hall of the ancient church, where it clinked down and bounced once, before it burst into a blinding flash of white hot flames and slight concussive force.  While not as hot as the sun, it was certainly retina-burning, and for any sort of entity that relied on night vision like the hunter himself or his irritating prey, it was absolutely distracting and blinding.  It was why he wore those stupid old goggles he'd put on before coming in.

As the fire burst outwards from the white phosphorus grenade he threw, the windigo pushed off his feet backwards and out of the acidic rain, some of it burning into one of his hands and arms as he did.  It healed faster than the damage could be inflicted; such was even the most basic of the Windigo condition, but for the insult and damage to his clothing, the next shots and reactions from the elder came much, much faster.

Another grenade was pulled out, and the pin was pulled.  When it flew at the vampire though, it was not the same careless toss for earlier- it was catapulted with the strength of it's wielder and swooped off of a predictable trajectory by an icy wind.  A wind that spread the same frost and decay that had followed John since his arrival.  The grande flew seemingly like a bullet right for Cherow.  More shots rung out, this time emptying the clip first to move Cherow again, then the rest for center of mass.  And then, using more of that wind, the grenade flew wide, attempting to pincer, and detonating on the wall near the vampire.

The nachzehrer could do little to avoid the hunters attacks. Their body now fallen flat to the ground with shattered bones and blood splattered across the marbled floor. However, despite this John knew that it was far over. Wheezing, a ragged laugh escapes the Cherows lips and without warning begins to eat their own flesh.

But before the hunter could spring into action the blood around them began to bubble and mist, filling the entire cathedral and blocking their sight. At that instance the smell of honey became even more pungent and heavy shaking could be heard. With the top of a coffin flying straight towards John soon after. In that opportune moment sharp elongated claws would come from the side and slice faintly into skin, before slinking back into the red haze.
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:34, Wed 07 Sept 2022.

His senses, sharp as they were, were a complete handicap for him; the smell was enough to almost choke him, though from disgust or hunger it was hard to tell.  Any thoughts of another white phosphorus grenade were lost as John scrabbled to recover himself before he was consumed.  The pistol had be stowed as he desperately searched for one of his pouches.  As his vision was clouded by the encroaching mist, it began to freeze, droplets of the blood actually becoming hardened solids and small portions of the mist becoming more liquid, and he hurriedly ripped out another small package, his eyes wild beneath the goggles.  The ground was already beginning to crack and icicles began to spire up from the new gaps.  He just managed to get a single bite into the 'ration,' and his mind was rapidly draining of his usual control, focusing down to his meal.

Even so, with his poise and control so precariously perched as it was, the sound was enough to alert the Windigo.  He reacted on instinct, managing to avoid lasting damage and lashing out with a powerful swipe of one of his gloved hands, now clawed and rapidly tearing away at the coverings on it. He moved with it, if not hitting the assailant, then certainly reducing the cover it had used to rotting dust and freezing a larger area, though it costed him the rest of his food.  He swore and immediately refocused, looking in the direction where the smell of his food came from, though it was getting harder to track by the second as more of the honeyed odour dominated the room.  His coat was starting to feel more tight than normal, and he knew he had to hurry; he couldn't take his medicine on an empty stomach, and his stomach was always almost empty. His boots likewise were becoming restrictive, and he had to blink to maintain his normal human pupils: they were rapidly shifting into a lupine-cervoid hybridization.  Considering how every sound was becoming unbearably loud, he was likely losing control of his auditory system as well, and the blood-like substance seeping from his forehead and crown meant that he truly had to hurry.  The horns sprouting without his permission were never a good sign.

He ducked the next attack without much thought, whipping out one rapidly scarring limb that was threatening to elongate past his desired and fraying sensibilities as a ward.  It scythed the air, and the air itself shimmered in the cold as he burst forward, using more of the same mobility and wind he had briefly used before to blitz down the ration.  It rapidly came into view, and his focus narrowed down to it and only it.

"You feel it, the hunger. We can not go on like this, we shouldn't have to." The voice of the Cherow stats, echoing throughout the hall. The mist dissipates and at the podium do they stand though not the same as before.



"You may have your fill if desired." They say motioning to the rest of the coffins. "I have planned carefully to feed more."