In the shadow of the Carpathians

[Tinbe]

In the wake of the Citadel's destruction, the intangible tapestry between the various Cities was torn asunder. Though contact was by no means inhibited, the remaining urban centers soon found the kindlings of insurrection smouldering at their feet. This left many of the Outlands installations to their own devices. Untouched by urban warfare... but left bereft in the wilderness, with no reinforcements in sight. Larger stations could make-do with their own host of memory replacement devices to enable the sanity of their transhuman cohorts. Morale was never an issue.

Or so one would think.

The castles in which the Combine had placed themselves soon faced persistent and sporadic incidents. At first, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Insurgent ambushes with minimal losses. Then, disappearances. Breaches of the encrypted comms followed by archaic Romanian babble... and vocoded screams. Outbound groups were quickly enlarged to prevent such snatchings from occuring. The patrol sizes eventually reached a critical mass that led to the stations themselves being assailed under lesser guard. The Carpathian night became alive with sound of gunfire. Then, silence.

It was all over by sunrise.

Several fortresses dating back to the medieval period - infested with plates of Combine metal and alien machinery - were taken overnight in a string of co-ordinated strikes. Though a far cry from the bombastic or slow and attrition-filled sieges of yore, their effectiveness was nothing to scoff at. Whatever long-range patrols from other Combine installations could come across in the outskirts of these "liberated" bastions was naught but grisly. Soldier and synth alike impaled on large stakes fashioned of wood. Grimace plastered on the faces of creatures which yet had a visage.

The old masters had returned.

Banners flew high across castles dotting the Southern Carpathians. Sewn old and new, though all bore the same symbol from the venerable days of Wallachia. A shield, its left half dominated by a white crescent atop and a yellow star on a backdrop of blue - the right half, a series of horizontal stripes fashioned in a pattern of yellow and red. The forces which united beneath this coat of arms all had some claim of legacy behind its origin. Successors to a bloodline that had scattered and lost its birthright to these lands long ago, once again gathered into a single House.

House of Drăculești.

For many weeks, the castles hibernated. Ardently defensive. Yet none too proactive. Were the Dragon's descendants licking their wounds in the safety of the ancient stone halls, using the Combine-built defenses to deter counterattacks while planning their next move? None could say for certain little beyond the fact they exercised great caution. At the forefront of it all stood a sole figure. Formerly a humble clockmaker known as Gavril Ardelean, claiming the name of his forefathers as he ascended the throne of voivode, after none stood up to defy him.

Gavril Dracul.

Those that knew him had always remembered him as a man of God, letting the Christ's teachings guide his action. Something of an inciting incident led him to seeking out the throne in much more aggressive manner. Rumor says that he found the soil within which one of his revered - and feared - ancestors had been buried. Digging it out frenetically to find the skull of Vlad the Impaler, whispering forbidden knowledge to his ear. Whether this is true is subject of much debate even among the House and his aides. Truth is, however, that something changed him.

Something foul and cursed.

Unlike the noble and heroic liberation of London, Wallachia's change in ruling was scantly assisted by Vortigaunts. Few that did co-operate had little to say about the aid which they rendered unto the House's fighters. Those that did provide counsel to the voivode-to-be himself were especially curt. As if there was nothing good to say about that... creature. Nevertheless, the successes along the Southern Carpathians were sure to ring across the neighboring regions, as recluse as the House of Drăculești was when meeting with envoys of differing groups. Freedom.

But at what cost?