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Red eyes glared from all around the council chambers.  Dimly lit by the red candles hanging in twisted black candelabra and sconces set on the vaulted, high-ceiling walls of the chamber, the scene would have frozen the blood of any living Man who looked upon them, were their eyes able to see anything other than those red gleaming tints.  But to the gaze of a Vampire, it might as well have been bright as daylight.

Dispassionate, cold, calculating, cunning, wise; all were words that did not quite capture the weight and bearing of he who sat at the head of the table.  Taller than any of the other chairs in the room, and set at the very center, towards which all the room seemed to focus in upon, his seat, more rather a throne, was formed from a monstrous skull shaped around lush cushions and weathered, pitted bones taken from unmistakable sources.  Skulls and spines formed the arm rests, ribcages framed the clawed feet, and all of it glowing with latent Necromantic power that drew the unlight of the room like moths to a flame.

Vampires were creatures of the night, but more so even that, they were creatures of habit, of insistence, and above all: grandeur.  Although black was the predominant color of the table, chairs, furnishings, and even the drapery and finery, all of it gleamed or shined like metal.  It was decadent and gothic, reflecting the wealth and intimidation exuded by the master of the hall.  Image was everything to a Vampire, and most especially to his underlings; it displayed power in a subtle way, lorded it, made evident the gap between master and servants, no matter how mighty they might be.

And Mordastyr von Drakenhof was as mighty as they came.  Black-clad armored hands gripped the arms of his chair as he viewed his five cohorts, each lounging, slumping, or sitting perfectly poised in their equally fine but understandably smaller chairs.  Blazing eyes that shone with a light more intense than any others in that dark hall met each of theirs in turn, cowed them, quailed their ferocious spirits and reminded them always of whose was the superior will.  It was a war as dangerous as pitched battle: maintaining authority among the Lords of the Night.  No matter their loyalties and supplication to his rule, uplifted to stations of power and entire dimensions of rule, scheming and ambition were inherently as much a part of a Vampire as the Thirst.

It took a special kind of Vampire to force allegiance amongst their own kind.  An even more unique case to enforce actual loyalty.  Especially amongst those why by their very nature were normally loyal only to themselves.  Benevolence was not natural to Vampires.

Leaning forward, the master of the hall reached out and gripped his carven, black chalice from the table before him.  Red liquid gleamed as he lifted it, raising the cup high above his bare head in a salute.  "A toast," he rasped, voice a sinister whisper that somehow echoed about the room.  Power dripped from every syllable he spoke, exuded from each flicker of his gaze or twitch of his body.  In response, his underlings reached out with taloned hands and lifted their own goblets to mirror him.  "To the campaign," he finished.

"To the campaign," they echoed, voices hissing, purring, simpering, or rumbling in discord and disharmony.  They could not have been different from one another if they had tried.  How they could so easily sit across from one another would have been previously thought impossible before Mordastyr had wrangled and tamed their wild, treacherous, unbeating hearts to his will.  Each was Master of their own houses, Lords of their respective Bloodlines, and yet none would dare challenge him.  Rather, they looked upon their Master with something, perhaps never before seen among the Deathless: respect.

Ruby-colored wine brushed his pale lips as Mordastyr drank of his cup, never once blinking or taking his eyes from the collection of Vampire Nobles before him.  Each did likewise, keeping their gazes locked on him rather than furtively glancing at one another.  While they did not trust their fellow Generals, they trusted him, or at least as much as any Vampire could trust anything as surely as that the sun would kill them without clouds to obscure its radiance.  Sure as silver, or holy magic, none would dare look away from the legendary Count while his gaze was upon them.  It was a predatory thing, an inherent danger that no matter their situation could not be bred or trained out.

Returning the chalice to the table before him, he reclined back in his throne and, at long last, panned his gaze from the collective to the singular, starting at one side and intending to work his way around the room.  His cohorts physically relaxed, although the specific Vampire his attention fixed upon did not.  "The western expansion and subjugation of the Empire and beyond," he uttered, the flat words phrased as a command rather than a question, but doubtless to be answered and immediately.

The Vampire on his immediate left straightened.  Armor shaped into sweeping, draconic designs, creaked around the burly, broad-shouldered warrior it contained, the only one present whose armament and raiment were a rival to his own; crimson to his midnight.  Military gaze as implacable as always, nonetheless, if a Vampire could sweat, she would have right then.

"We are proceeding apace," Miranda of Quenelles announced.  Her Bretonnian roots were still evident even through the rasp that all Vampires spoke in, a harsh, grating accent that warred with the over-long canine fangs that all their kind possessed.  Miranda Moscoigne, Scourge of Couronne, Blood-Dragon knight and Mordastyr's top military General, met his gaze and shivered.  Even in Undeath, her fiery red hair billowed about her pale, feral face, tresses made bloody in the dim light.  "Two moons past, my forces fought a battle against a coalition of Templars, led by a General of the Knights-Panther.  Their lord fought valiantly, but victory was ours."

Eyes that no soul could speak falsehoods before narrowed, ruby gleams piercing through her like lances.  She shifted uncomfortably before him, until his gaze swept past her to the next in line, whereupon she physically shuddered in relief.  He had more to speak of to her yet but wanted the basics from them all beforehand.  

"The expanse south," he commanded of the next Vampire in line.  Here could not have been a more drastically different sort than the warrior-paragon that was Miranda.  Instead, Maximillian Zhuker was a physically unimpressive sort, for a Vampire.  His sunken eyes glared out from within deep caves, wizened skin shriveled tight and almost mummified over his skull.  Heavy, bat-like robes hung about his slender body, making him appear almost comically undersized as his long ears stuck up over his huge furry collar.  The Necrarch Vampire lord was a ghastly sight, always leaning heavily on his troll-spine staff as if the weight of his centuries of life were almost enough to undo his entire Mortal binding.

Frail he might appear, Mordastyr knew that of the assembled Vampires, none were more adept or deadly skilled in the Vampiric arts of Magic and Necromancy as Zhuker.  At his waist hung three, flesh-bound tomes bound in black chains, grimoires of Nagash recovered from the Tomb Kings over the course of centuries.   He was as much a sorcerer as an engineer, pivotal in the raising and maintaining of Mordastyr's unliving, tireless armies.

"The Orcs have proven cumbersome and troubling," he coughed, his voice the only part of him that was not frail or sickly sounding.  Rather, it boomed from him in a way that even Mordastyr found impressive.  "The savage hosts they employ are not as susceptible to the campaign's efforts as others, but they are unruly at best.  Key placement of Banshees and plenty of raised zombies serve to keep their attentions diverted and animosity channeled to my devices.  I've claimed three of their Shamans so far, and their tribes are disbanding past the deserts as we speak, now lacking proper leadership."

That was pleasing to hear, even if he knew the Greenskins would always return.  Matters for another time, however.  Zhuker would no doubt already be making contingency plans to deal with those in due course.  He panned his gaze onwards.  A pair of fair visages greeted his eyes, man and woman seated in the same chair despite having one apiece for either of them.  Pale faces shone with just as much hunger for conquest as it was for one another.  Less of a pair of separate Vampires and more a singular entity of ambition that embodied one soul between two bodies, Mordastyr gazed upon them both.

"Our infrastructure," he growled of them.  Of all his Generals, he feared their ambition, dual-natured as it was, the most.  

Elsbeth Ghant smiled, displaying her long feral teeth, and draped her arm lovingly around the shoulders of her beloved Draesca von Carstein.  Her hair, sterling silver, was done up in an elaborate headdress, bound with braids so intricate that he could never have guessed how they were done.  Makeup was applied heavily,  making her appear even more starkly wild, enhancing her beauty and dangerous aura even more.  Her dress was luxurious, a combination of frilly lace, a deep-plunging bodice, swaying skirts, along with fine chainmail and plate interspersed throughout.  

"Flawless," she hummed, stroking the hair and cheek of her lover.  Mordastyr was not entirely sure she was really answering him, but he knew that even if she was insolent, there was at least the real hint of the fear of him that kept her answers on point.  "As beautiful as the moonlight, and strong as the dark mountains."

A heavy growl permeated the room from him.  Elsbeth's companion stirred, his scarlet eyes narrowing at the tone.  He glanced once at his seemingly undisturbed companion draped across his armored lap, and then placated her simpering by grasping her fingers and kissing them once before returning his full attention to his master.  

"Your Master of Hounds and Flying Hosts would inform your Dark Lordship that the bounds of your Empire are without equal," he intoned.  There was always the respect and dignity of the Von Carsteins, Mordastyr knew.  Not to mention the arrogance.  His long, well-tailored hair was at odds with how most Vampire males shaved their heads, and he kept a rakish beard as well on his haughty, sharp-featured face.  His collar was high up around his neck, and his dual black swords were hung over the back of his chair.  "The Mortal populace is subdued, perhaps even grateful for our guidance."

"Indeed," purred Elsbeth.  Now she too turned her gaze to their Master.  The Lahmian at first seemed as if she would draw and, as ever, attempt her wily ways of taunting or teasing Mordastyr to gaze upon her as any Mortal or even Vampire was wont to do.  She was indeed lovely, as lovely as any of the Sisterhood, but a viper lurked in those smiles of hers and Mordastyr was not the type to fall for her tricks.  She glanced away at last, withdrawing into her lover's embrace more when it became obvious he was in no mood for her flirtations.

Part of that was why he feared the two of them more than any of the others; there between them was ambition to spare.  Perhaps leaving the pair of them to manage the internal machinations of his lands was a mistake, but he knew he had what they truly desired firmly in hand, and his efforts thus far had never been anything but rewarding of their admittedly well-earned positions of power and privilege.

"We even have recruited some small garrisons of Mortal loyalists," she continued.  There then entered a gleam of personal pride, even a yearning for approval, and she and Draesca met his eyes evenly.  "They bring crossbows and handguns, pikes and halberds to the Unliving ranks, as well as Mortal precision and dedication.  As you commanded, surrendered townships and hamlets are kept well and allowed to govern themselves under strict watch.  Your Lordship was wise in such rulings, and we are more than pleased by their fanaticism to you."

Mordastyr nodded again in that silent, unmoving way of his.  Try as he might, he knew the two of them were the best suited to such subtle and sensitive work as keeping the cattle in line.  Better the carrot than the stick for now; loyal Mortals willing to fight for him would sway more to his side, and allow for easier management and conquest the farther their collective ambitions and dreams reached.  Pleased enough for now, but withholding other thoughts, he turned to the last of his Generals.

"What of the North and Eastern fronts?" he inquired.

All eyes panned along with his to the right-most seat at the table, within which perched, yet again, a most drastically different kind of being than the rest of them.  Hungry, feral, near animalistic eyes gleamed from the skull of Kruger of Krogenheim.  The utterly massive Strigoi Vampire barely fit into his chair, muscular bulk so large that he dominated an entire section of the table that two chairs might have filled otherwise.  

Long-taloned hands, misshapen from their natural form, ticked and clicked on the polished surface.  Bat-like, monstrous features were locked into a perpetual snarl, exposing a mouth full of fangs.  A collar sewn from what looked like beards and wild animal pelts decorated his shoulders, and unlike the rest of the Vampires, he wore no armor save for sewn pelts across his chest and waist.  Spiky strands of hair, almost like porcupine quills, stuck up from the back of his skull.  The Ghoul-King was a beast, pure and simple, and those two words were also perfectly apt to describe him.  Pure in his ravenous nature and dedication to the cause, simple in his needs and motives.

"The Dwarves," he snarled, voice entirely inhuman and thunderous. "Shrink back in their holds.  Kislev, Northmen, Skaven; all cower before Kruger's ghoul hordes.  Fighting is good.  Kruger wishes to return to it soon."  He gazed eagerly at Mordastyr, for all the world as fanatically loyal and ready to be given leave to hunt again as a trained wolf might be.

"In time, Kruger," Mordastyr commanded.  Then he spared the massive creature a rare smile.  "I should like to hear the latest report of how you routed the Ratmen of Clan Moulder."

Baring his fangs in a mockery of a huge grin, the Claw of Krogenheim chuckled hoarsely.  From his waist he extricated a polished, not to mention heavily gnawed skull, overlarge shape somewhere between a rat and wolf's.  He licked a long, purplish tongue across it.  "Good fighting.  Kruger love Skaven.  Always plenty to eat."

Then I should be letting you get back to it, and soon, Mordastyr pondered.  Shaking his head, he looked around the room once more, and then, like the weight of a guillotine falling, he once again fixed his gaze upon the leftmost member of his personal cadre of death-dealing lords of the Night.

"Lord Helmut Gorsteb," he intoned and he saw Miranda Moscoigne, the most implacable, unshakable warrior he had ever known in life or death shiver beneath his gaze.  "He made a good accounting of himself?"

"Yes, my lord."

One of his pale eyebrows, the only hair on his head, arched up above those shimmering orbs.  "I've reports that state otherwise."  At her shocked stirring, dragon armor rustling about her almost like a living thing, he flickered his eyes past her to the walls of the chamber.  "The Wight Lords you command may be loyal to you, but ultimately they answer to me."  

None of the Vampires needed to glance around themselves, fully aware their personal retinue lined the walls as silent and still as statues.  The two he meant in question would barely have been distinguishable from suits of armor save for the witch-lights burning in their skeletal eyesockets, standing with all the poise, dignity, and resolve as they once had when they were kings and generals of living men.

"Karkarof Schwartzhelm," he drawled, a bucket-helmed Wight in fluted, dark armor shifting only minutely at being named.  "Wilhelm von Gruber."  Karkarof's companion, wearing a bat-winged helm without a visor and revealing his fleshless face, also stirred.  "Both of you attested to the lady Moscoigne's victory against said Empire general."  They nodded silently, movements mechanical and stiff.  

"Knight Grandmaster Gorsteb met Miranda Blood-Dragon in personal combat," stated the wheezing rasp of Schwartzhelm, echoing from within his helmet as if from deep inside a dusty tomb.  

Wight Kings were some of the most powerful of the Animated Dead, second only to Lesser Vampires for martial skill and strength.  Both bore long, rune-etched blades at their side, as did the other Wights and various other agents of the Night scattered about the room, at least one behind each Vampire Count's chair.  Next to them, two beautiful Vampire Nobles stood flanking their Mistress' chair: the fair Camilla Daughterty and the harsh Illiza Ghorst.

Spectral and slightly ethereal in shape, the fluttering shades of two Banshees, women in long trailing, mottled gowns with haggard, beastly faces and sharpened claws, hovered silently over the chair of Maximillian.  Creatures of tragedy and vengeance, Zhuker used them as assassins and spies in his endeavors to expand his Necromantic reign over the southern expanses of Mordastyr's empire.  Behind the tangle of Von Carstein and Lahmia, an armored warrior, swollen to unnatural size, loomed, fingering its two-handed axe.  Osbert Jaeger, whose belt was strewn with the skulls of defeated Empire and Bretonnian Champions; the Wight was personal gift and creation of Von Drakenhof for their defeat of many Empire houses.  Last but not least, three ghastly-thin male sorcerers in black robes and skull-masks huddled behind Kruger, often throwing nervous glances at both their liege lord and the even more powerful Vampire Count that the bestial Strigoi was fanatically loyal to.

Mordastyr did not blink or nod, but the Wights in question seemed to take his silence as a bid to continue with the recounting of their report.  Von Gruber took over, voice as equally toneless and dry as someone speaking without lungs would be.  "Both rode out before their respective armies for parley.  Their duel was mighty, and honorable, to the last of it."

"When tides turned and frailty was revealed," added the black-helmed Undead.  The Vampires stirred, glancing at their companion quizzically.  Their Lord did not, merely staring hard at Miranda.

"Frailty," he growled out, low and soft.

"Mortal," explained Karkarof.  The room relaxed, except for Mordastyr and Miranda.  "When the fighting turned poorly for the Grandmaster, his resolve shattered and he fled the field before his armies and our own."

Although she did not stir otherwise, Miranda closed her eyes.  Mordastyr arched his eyebrow yet higher.

"He met his fate beneath the claws of Lady Blood-Dragon's personal Zombie Dragon mount as he attempted to flee," concluded Wilhelm.  "Afterwards, our host advanced on the Humans and crushed them.  Cavalry charges to their right flank led by myself, Graveguard led by Schwartzhelm at the left, and Lady Miranda at the forefront alone astride the Dragon."

The Wights shrank back into the shadowy alcoves of the chamber walls, once again as inert and unmoving as if part of the furnishings.  All eyes looked upon the silent Blood Dragon Vampire.  Still, she did not speak.

"I would ask why you would lie in such inconsequential fashion" Von Drakenhof hissed quietly.  "But perhaps, I already know the reason."  She nodded, as he suspected she would.  "How large was the host you fought?"

Forced to respond, Miranda reopened her eyes, flat, lifeless, and without any pride or enthusiasm.  "Three full companies.  One led by Gorsteb, an Empire General whose livery I did not know, and a Battle-Chaplain of Ostland.  The Grandmaster was their commander.  Both of the other Generals fell to my blade personally."

"But not your old tutor," mused Mordastyr.  He might as well have struck her for how she recoiled.  "Sparing him his knightly image being so tarnished by fleeing before a superior foe does not do him credit.  Nor you in attempting to shield his reputation in death, my general."  

She met his gaze again, confusion, uncertainty, but above all respect emanating from her.  

He continued.  "Perhaps you were simply disappointed that you could not give him a clean death, so as to honor his memory for the years of service you had beneath him.  You are the youngest of my Generals, Miranda Moscoigne.  Only ten years of the Imperial Calender have passed since I gifted you the Red Kiss.  The Knights-Panther commander was already middle-aged when you came to me, heavy with his years of campaigning.  The only honor I shall grant him is driving such a talented, honorable warrior to me.  Let his corpse rot, for you are above such weakness as regret."

Miranda bowed her head solemnly to him, red hair falling about her ivory face in a curtain.  "You honor me beyond words, my Master," she intoned.  There was a pause.  "Vengeance has never driven me, regardless of how I was treated during my service to Gorsteb when I fought in his service as Knight-Damosel.  His fellow officers may have spurned me as foreigner and woman, but he never did.  Even when he at the end bowed to the opinions of his other officers and had me...evicted from his command, I never once hated the man."  Her eyes fell slightly.  "I wished only to give him a warrior's death.  It is humbling...in a way, to have grown so mighty that I failed him in this."

A soft scoff from Draesca returned the fire in Miranda's eyes and she glared over at the Von Carstein.  So vehement was her gaze that even though he did not avert his eyes from her, thus portraying weakness, but some of his bluster noticably vanished in an instant and he coughed.  "One cannot blame themselves for the weakness of the Human will, Lady Miranda."  His eyes nonetheless remained cold and amused; no love was lost between the two of them, of that Mordastyr knew for certain.  "One might ponder as to why a reputable and fearsome Vampire Lord such as yourself however would bother worrying about such things.  Perhaps a holdout or trapping from your previous Life that ties you still to the deceased Grandmaster?"

Tension became sharper in the room.  Illiza Ghorst fingered her blade at the ill-viled slight to her Mistress, to which Osbert Jaeger the Wight hefted its axe meaningfully in preperation to defend its sworn charges.  Miranda fixed Draesca with a look that, if it could kill, would have a stake driven into his heart at that moment.  Even Mordastyr narrowed his eyes suspiciously, not at the Blood Dragon, but at the cocky Von Carstein attempting to goad his fellow General.  

Did he know of Miranda's true intentions and desires in regards to her former Templar commander, or was he just attempting to goad her in an admitted moment of weakness compared to the usual icy shell the knight-woman exuded at all times in such times at council.  He decided to put an end to it personally.

"Enough," the Lord drawled commandingly, leaning back in his chair.  Immediately all eyes returned to him and what rising bloodlust had been forming quickly dissipated.  Metal-clad talons tapped a staccato on the arm, clicking loudly on the skull of it.  "Of your drive, ambition, Moscoigne, and of the desires that brought you to my Court, I am all very aware.  Dwell not on the failings of the Living, it does not suit a Master of the Night."  He flicked his gaze to one of the Wights, Schwartzhelm, and it nodded silently, disappearing through a door that did not need to open to allow passage.  "Regardless, your efforts have been fruitful, and our borders remain guarded thanks to you.  The last of the knightly houses have been routed; Gorsteb's last stand will be a turning point.  You've well earned your Boon."

The energy of the room intensified.  Each Lord leaned forward, inquisitive hunger burning within each of them so intensely that he might have brought out a fresh meal to taunt them with.  Miranda's gaze sharpened beneath his own and her lips, as brightly crimson as her hair and eyes, drew back from her teeth in a snarl of anticipation, hunger...joy.

"Your Lordship speaks true?" she whispered.

Eyes narrowing, he sat up straighter.  "Do you doubt me?" he snarled, and immediately all were cowed again.

"Of course not, my Master," Miranda was quick to answer.

Sitting up straighter in his throne, the lord of Drakenhof glared around the room, and so strict and iron was his gaze that even Draesca averted his eyes.  "I do not dangle your desires before you as bait; all of you are aware that I hold what you seek, and will dispense them at my leisure for your efforts.  Hard-won battles, expansion of the Night Army, subjugation of the Living, and most of all: personal triumphs."  He fixed Miranda with a glare, which then, for a rare, quiet moment, softened almost in a fatherly way.  "This triumph is mighty and laudable.  I trust that your loyalty will remain should your heart's desire be granted?"

Her nod was fierce and insistent.  "I remain your sworn blade, your General, for all eternity," she swore, as she had done before many times.  Reaffirmation was a comfort to Mordastyr.  The best way to ensure loyalty was suitable rewards, and tonight was a night for all to receive what they had kept in their secret hearts for all these years, now that his dreams were all but fully realized.  Now was the time to strengthen bonds already made strong, to prepare and defend what had taken so long to achieve.  It was what made his servants, his Generals, better than any other Vampire Hosts ever had been, for they were bound by loyalty as deep as the Thirst.

Sensing her anticipation, and that of the room at large, Mordastyr turned his gaze upon them all once more.  "Do not let suspicion or jealousy gnaw on your blackened hearts," he growled.  "All will be rewarded, but only after I've received your reports of the campaign."  Their bloody-red gazes brightened and feral grins shone like crescent moons in the gloom.  He turned his eyes back to Miranda.  If a Vampire could be fidgety, she would have been so described.  "You may leave us, Blood-Dragon," he commanded.  "Your Boon is waiting for you in your chambers...unspoiled, at your request."

Miranda's eyes fluttered closed again as she once more seemed to take time to compose herself, then she stood grandly from the table, armor rattling around her powerful frame, and she strode on long legs around it.  She knelt before him, drawing her huge sword from her blood-red scabbard at her waist, and planting its tip on the ground between his booted feet.

"In Life, in Death, I remain sworn to you, Lord and Master of the Darkened Skies," she rasped.  "He most worthy of the rule of Vampires, to you I swear once again but most fervently of all time, I am yours, Lord Mordastyr von Drakenhof."

Pleased at her fealty, the Master Vampire reached forward and placed a gauntleted hand atop her fiery tresses.  "Go," he commanded.  "We've little time for pleasantries.  You march again to the front at the New Moon, so enjoy your reward while you can."

Standing to her full, impressive height, the Blood Dragon Vampiress inclined her head once more at her Lord, and then swept from the room, followed closely by her Vampire lieutenants and remaining Wight champion.  The four remaining of Von Drakenhof's generals all eagerly sat forward in their respective chairs, ready and hungry to give their reports and so earn their own, long-awaited heart's desires.  He was a patient Master, a giving and generous Lord.  Vampires did not have values in such things, but Mordastyr was not like other Vampire Counts.  His was a heart, even blackened and no longer beating, of honor, chivalry, and absolute command.

All who served him loyally would benefit from his perhaps unconventional but ultimately successful methods.  Let the von Carsteins bicker about his honesty, the Lahmians of his directness, the Strigoi over his sophistication, the Necrarch because of his military dedication, and the Blood Dragons for his mysticism.  He would be the best of the Vampire Counts, the true Ruler of the Nightlands; the true Elector Count of Sylvannia.  His was a name to be feared and respected above even such legendary figures as Mannfred, Vlad, or Walach.  He would unite the Bloodlines and bring about a true Empire of the Undead, built with subservient Human servants and loyalty till the End Times came.

"Kruger, you were going to illuminate us with your battles with the Skaven and Norsemen," he drawled, selecting the next of his generals to hear from.  So he commanded and the war-room waited eagerly to speak at his leisure.

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