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The twilight was queer indeed; a blood red moon that seemed as if to bleed into the sky, leaving it congealed in the dusk. For a vampire hunter, this was expected. Whenever the sky was a blood-red, it meant trouble.
Up the mountain he went, his face scarred and cracked, a peculiar saw-like weapon on his back. Wolves howled somewhere in the distance. A fine welcome this is, thought the hunter.
He, as a poor contractor seeking work hunting vampires and lycans, had learned of a coven of the freaks that had sought refuge in a mountaintop retreat, a great bastion that once was home to the ruling count of the vale, now usurped by bloodsuckers and monsters of the night.
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