Archived-Battle of Holstein
It was the year 1700. Holstein. A port on the Baltic Sea.
The turf skirmishes between Volmark and Valdyr had been escalating in frequency and violence for decades, to reach a head here, at the great battle that both factions imagined would decide everything. If the Valdyr wished to expand their territories into the German Empire, they needed to take this ground. If the Volmark were to protect their holdings, they needed to defend it.
Each side had brought their full forces to the field, and while the Volmark had superior tactics, Vilrec had been busy recruiting and training, and they were, after having dominated the conflict militarily for so long, finding themselves overwhelmed by the greater numbers of the Valdyr forces.
The air was thick with the dust of the dead, on both sides, choked with smoke and lit red with fire.
Beautiful Batavia, jewel in the crown of the Lord of House Volmark, clad in gleaming armour, had led the Volmark forces onto the field as her Sire, the great Godric, watched from his horse atop a nearby hill. The battle had been long, and bitter, but the Valdyr soldiers were slowly gaining ground, punishing the Volmarks’ army. Batavia herself, as her Lord’s war leader, had hacked her way through the fray to Vilrec Langlifr, head of the Valdyr family, and the two had clashed in fierce combat.
For a time, they had seemed evenly matched – Batavia’s strength to Vilrec’s claws – and they struggled, slick with blood both shed and sweat, neither able to gain advantage, but, like his army, he had slowly begun to dominate, and the fear in her eyes reflected the firelight, and the shadows of the battle played over their locked and straining forms. Finally, he struck her a mighty blow, sending her helm tumbling to the ground, and leaving her reeling, momentarily stunned. Siezing his moment, the Valdyr laid hands upon Godric’s first and only unmarked childe’s lovely face, hooking his claws deep into the flesh and his fingers around the skull, and began…to squeeze.
No-one knows what passed between them, then. To this day, no Volmark nor Valdyr knows the words she spoke to him – though her lips were seen, by those struggling nearby, to move, her eyes widened with the terror of a Kindred confronted, at last, with the lie of their own immortality, no-one could hear the tense and desperate whisper over the din of the battle – but whatever they were, they stopped him cold. His face went white, and his fingers locked mid-crush, cradled as they were around her face, and he stood, and he stared; gape-mouthed and wide-eyed, gasping like a fish for a breath that would not come, clutching hands visibly shaking, for long, precious seconds - two figures frozen like bas relief while the battle raged all around them.
Long enough, then, for Godric, who had come barreling down from his hill the moment he saw his childe in real danger, to plough solidly into him, wrenching him clear and tearing her head free of the grasping, crushing claws. Batavia screamed, and fell, as her Sire carried his enemy to the ground, and punished him with sword and with fist for long moments, but the Valdyr fought like a man possessed – not to dominate, but only to be free, and shortly squirmed himself clear from beneath the German’s pounding blows, turned tail and ran. Godric, giving his fleeter enemy up for escaped, turned to his injured childe as she lay, languishing with her hand to her face, shuddering and whimpering as blood seeped through her fingers, and the Lord of House Volmark gathered her into his arms as he turned his head to watch his hated enemy flee the field of battle; stumbling and tripping over the bodies in his path, he scrambled on, unheeding, his face ashen, throwing long, wide-eyed glances headlong over his shoulder all the while, and running always on, and on, like a man pursued by ghosts. The Valdyr forces, who had been so surely turning the tide to triumph, took fright at their leader’s mad flight, and withdrew also, leaving the Elder Nosferatu cradling his wounded childe amidst piles of the dead, while black banners fluttered against a red sky.
What words did she speak, to a-fright the great Savage warrior so? No-one knew. No-one heard. When Batavia herself was questioned later on the matter, she professed not to remember, and use of the Sight showed her to be speaking the truth. Certainly, if any have pressed Vilrec Langlifr, he has not spoken of what passed between them, and indeed, all wise Valdyr know better than to ask, for it is a line of enquiry that makes their great ancestor short in temper, and inclined to violent evasion. Most assume, and put it down to, a judicious use of the powers of her blood, with particular success at a critical moment – no more. Likewise, none but Batavia and her Sire know the extent of her mutilation, but it may be assumed that her perfect beauty was forever marred – the blood-curse she had evaded so long delivered, finally, by a Gangrel enemy – for she has worn a mask from that night to this, and has not been seen to shed it in any company. It is telling, too, perhaps, that she was never to ride at the head of another army, retiring instead shortly thereafter to a purely strategic role, and observing the battles from afar at the side of her Sire, who had Embraced other childer to lead his forces in the field – a gesture of protectiveness, may we conjecture? Or of disappointment?"
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