When Sean and his group arrived in Bucharest, it was already 6:30 PM...
Their journey toward the dawn had proven far from smooth, they hadn't even covered half the distance before their car broke down on the highway.
Fortunately, fate smiled upon this peculiar team of Kamar-Taj sorcerers and Ghost Riders when they encountered a hippie band on a road trip in their RV. After a not-so-friendly but ultimately amicable exchange, these self-proclaid demon-slaying, world-saving warriors were back on the road.
With frequent stops along the way, Sean showed no urgency in catching up to Carrigan. As he put it, no matter how much they rushed, phisto wasn't going anywhere. Before charging headlong into battle, they might as well enjoy a proper lunch and take a short rest.
Mordo had grown accustod to the young man's occasional laziness and lack of urgency. And ti and again, Sean's reasoning had proven sound.
No one knew what awaited them. Eastern Europe had nearly beco the last stronghold of dark creatures, and who knew how many vampires and werewolves lurked in Bucharest, their final destination.
Before battle, a soldier should prepare their weapons and ammunition, and be ready to face any ergency.
The newly recruited Johnny had no objections... he was desperate for a steak and so creamy at rolls to fill his empty stomach. Each transformation into the Ghost Rider took a heavy toll on his body.
And so, while phisto marshaled his forces and waited for them, the group feasted on hearty food and wine at a roadside motel before collapsing onto the not-so-soft beds for an afternoon nap...
...
anwhile, in Bucharest, the vampire elder Alia (also of the Volturi royal line) glared disdainfully at Carrigan, who was now transford into a hellish ghoul...
Using the city hall's ergency alert system, they had evacuated most of the civilians. The child born of human and demon had already been found. Once the clock struck midnight, the Lord of Hell would break free from the material world's constraints and descend upon this earth!
Yet at this pivotal mont, they stood like fools at the city's entrance, waiting for two sorcerers?
"Didn't you say two powerful sorcerers were hunting us down?" The beautiful vampire elder side-eyed Carrigan, her tone icy. Half of Eastern Europe's vampire guards had gathered here, waiting for six long hours, "Tell , where are they?"
"Who knows? Maybe they heard our great master's na and ran off in fear." Carrigan, now a servant of phisto, grinned with his ghastly pale face, no longer afraid of these vampires.
The proud vampire elder could not tolerate such insolence. Vampires prided themselves as noble, eternal beings, and she regarded Carrigan, a groveling sycophantic wretch, with nothing but contempt. The stench of sulfur and his filthy, rotting body filled her with disgust...
A silver flash tore through the air, faster than the eye could follow, slicing open Carrigan's withered, bark-like face. Alia doubted phisto would raise a fuss over an incompetent servant. The era of dark creatures was dawning, and both vampires and werewolves would be at the forefront of this new power.
But Carrigan's split face twisted into an eerie smile. The gash from forehead to jaw revealed no gore, only the texture of rotten wood. A chill crept up Alia's spine as her vision suddenly darkened. A cold hand rested on her shoulder.
"You cold-blooded creatures… ever wondered what rotting flesh feels like?" Carrigan's voice slithered into her ear.
Ghouls were a kind of "blessed" servant transford by a Lord of Hell. They could conjure zones of darkness and corrode organic matter. As Carrigan's decaying fingers touched Alia's flawless skin, the vampire elder finally felt fear. Her smooth, porcelain-like flesh began to crack and wither like parched wood.
"Enough!" A muscular arm shoved Carrigan away.
A wild, powerfully built man glared at the furious ghoul and barked, "This is no ti for infighting! Until the great phisto descends, anyone who causes trouble will lose their head, this I swear on my honor as a werewolf!"
This bare-chested savage man was Lucian, the werewolf king who had once nearly overthrown vampire rule, freeing his kind from centuries of enslavent. Unlike the vampires who were fractured into countless factions, the werewolves had only one leader... Lucian.
Now, these ancient enemies stood united under phisto's banner.
Compared to their bloody feud, the true threat looming over them was the sorcerers and demon/monster hunters...
They had been driven into hiding across Europe and forced to accept humiliating treaties. Any who broke the rules (vampire or werewolf) would be dragged into sunlight to burn or nailed to a pyre.
With her withered skin restored as her blood surged, Alia shot Carrigan a venomous glare but held her tongue...
Hundreds– no, thousands of dark creatures flooded into the city, occupying every shadowy corner. Spreading outward from the Palace of the Parliant, they ford a vast, encircling ring.
These vampires and werewolves who are now phisto's pawns moved along predetermined paths, splashing pungent blood across streets and buildings. The blood of countless livestock poured like buckets of red paint, as if enacting so sinister ritual.
From above, the blood seed drawn by an unseen force, converging into streams that traced countless crimson threads... It was like an invisible hand was sketching an intricate design.
A massive outer circle enveloped the city, its interior a web of overlapping, interwoven veins of blood, forming a colossal, crimson eye.
Slowly, the scent of sulfur perated Bucharest. The temperature rose, as if hell itself were seeping into the world.
And outside the city, a Ford RV rolled leisurely down the highway. Its powerful speakers blared 'Voyage Voyage', the deep male and ethereal female voices weaving a grand lody.
From their perch atop the city's towering structures, the vampire elder and werewolf king watched as their enemies arrived in such brazen fashion.
The sun hung low, its golden afterglow casting warm light as dusk settled over the horizon...
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