Untitled Christmas Story
By Hamish "Tchernobog" Wilson
Friday December 25, 2009, 11:08 pm

Forum Message:
"Okay, I was meaning to post this earlier, but there were a few things I wanted to get done first.

I have gone through the links on the Blood Wiki's Fan Fiction article, and redirected them to alternative sources now that Planet Blood is down. All the links should work there now, with the exception being the works by Eric J. Juneau, which currently have only the links for TXT versions of the shorts and the ones on FanFiction.net working. The Blood Community really took a one-two punch from the closure of both Planet Blood and Geocities in the same year. Luckily I had the foresight to see this coming, and in 2008 started backing up what I thought as important. I will try to talk with Juneau, him being a good friend of the wiki, about the link problems, and worse comes to worse I can host them myself, as I have them backuped.

Secondly, I wish to apologize to zZaRDoZz for me being unavailable to check over those bits of his aforementioned fan fiction he sent me. My Linux box has been down due to a hardware blow-out and I have only recently got it running again. Due to this I was stuck on an old Windows 98 laptop, and swamped with other things to deal with. If you wish I can try and check over parts of it again, and I absolutely would like to give it a final grammar check as agreed before it is released. I hope it is coming well.

Thirdly, here is a little thing I wrote after playing a round of Blood on my re-built powerful beast of a Linux machine (through Dosbox of course). Thought I should post it, considering in an hour my time it goes out of season..."

Story Text:
"Above, why do they always seem to attack from above? When they were in front of him he could handle them easily, when they were behind him he could just about manage it, hell, he could even deal them more than a nasty blow when they were below. But when they were above... it was more than just a headache, it was a full blown migraine. And he had only had four shells left. He would have to get some more before the night was done, that was certain.

Caleb could hear the growls, but could not decide where exactly they were coming from. All that bloody noise did not help matters, the sounds of bombs, machine gun fire, aircraft... and all those other things his old ears were not accustom to. He did not even fully realize how old they were, let alone what time he was in. It was a more than a while, he knew that, machines had spread everywhere in a world where the sound of an electric hum was so common that it would go without notice. To most ears at least, but not his. Ah well, there would be time aplenty to study a calendar, and now was not the time.

The growls were getting closer, he knew that. But from where damn it, where? It would make all the difference where. Especially with only four shells... if his aim was unsteady.. if he missed... Nah, he wouldn't miss. Pitchforks tend to make little impact on scales, unlike the effect claws often have on flesh. He couldn't miss. Caleb heard a sound to his left. He turned, weapon at the ready, peering across the corner into the neighboring room. He could see nothing. Why was it he always only saw nothing... until it was to late.

The room itself was not very inviting. Drab peeling wallpaper hang from the walls, a large tattered flag adorning one of them. A wooden ledge seemed to hover above him, adding even more possible places for an attack. He had no choice but to walk in a see what was in there. Caleb stepped in slowly, surveying the room as much as he could. He saw a shadow move in the darkness above. He turned to face it... and could see nothing. His mind must be playing tricks on him, no? He shrugged it off and continued to walk slowly across the room.

He found an elevator, another one of those machines which suddenly seemed to be everywhere, and stepped inside. With cold and uninviting metal sides, and a rusty lever, to him it seemed like another world. Not that it mattered... not that any of this world mattered. He had a purpose, and until that purpose was fulfilled he would not let time, or death, take him. He felt the ground move under his feet as the lift rose to the next floor, to those ledges he had seen earlier. Then it stopped with a jerk, and the door slid open.

Caleb walked outside. He always did hate being wrong. But nothing can beat that gut-wrenching feeling one gets when he finds out his assumptions were horrifically, absolutely, positively wrong. Caleb must have been feeling this as he saw the wings rise from the blackness and flap towards him. He raised his weapon, but did not fire, fearing he would risk his precious shells. Only when the gargoyle's breath was in smelling distance did he fire. And a beautiful shot it was, hitting the beast straight in its pudgy disgusting belly. More than enough to put that creature off his food for an eternity. It was then however, when he heard the others...

Caleb fired his weapon in surprise, hitting one of the gargoyles on its side. Not nearly enough to take it down, and now he was out of ammo. He could see the corpse of a cultist nearby, must have done something to p*** of his leathery comrades. Caleb leaped over to where it laid, hoping desperately for something to change the odds. He quickly grabbed something from the man's pocket, and ran back to the lift. He spun quickly and closed the door, and he could hear the sound of the gargoyle hitting the metal behind him.

His heart raced. Should he go back down? No, they could fly done at him from anywhere and pick him off with ease. On the other hand, if he was quick enough he might be able to escape. If he went back up he was assuring a fight, one which common-sense seemed to be telling him he would lose. He glanced at what he held in his pocket. It was some shotgun shells. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the odds were on his side after all.

He loaded his gun and opened the door. They were hiding somewhere. He pressed himself against the wall, guaranteeing he would not get sneaked-up on, and inched forwards. He was not in the mood to play their games. Before long the gargoyles would have to act. Caleb stood still in one corner, viewing the entire room around him. They had to come from somewhere. And when they did come he would be ready.

He did not have to wait long. The pair of them flew up from the room below, one from each side, attempting to trap him where he stood. Caleb saw the blood leaking from one of them and fired, finishing up what he had started earlier. Now it was just one against one. It was approaching rapidly from his right, angered by the death of his brethren and thirsty for his blood. Caleb acted quickly, running from the corner and backing towards the lift. The gargoyle was also quick, and was soon immediately in front of him. Caleb stared at it, his shotgun aiming at is gnarled teeth. He heard the clanking of metal under his feet, he must have backed into the lift before the door was closed.

The gargoyle continued to follow, much like a dog follows a person holding a treat. Caleb felt his finger tense on the trigger. He took a deep breath. The gargoyle screamed. Caleb opened his eyes. He had not fired a single shot. On the ground before him was the dismembered head of the gargoyle. The door had closed on it before it had a chance to react. Caleb grunted a short acknowledgment. These machines were not all bad after all.

Before leaving the foreboding room, Caleb turned to see that something was pinned to one of the walls. He walked up to it. Laying near the object was yet another body, something so common to see where he traveled, clutching something in his hand. Caleb studied the object pinned against the wall. It was a calendar, a picture of a woman laying alluringly at the top. But that was not what Caleb was interested in. He read the date and month inscribed in bold, “December 1928”. He did not know if it was accurate or not, but at least it was a date.

Many of the days were marked out with a marker. Someone must have been counting the days to something coming up soon. Caleb turned to see what the dead man held in his hand. It was a marker. What had this man been waiting for? He seemed to remember people celebrated something this time of year. Not that he cared, but he still wondered what it was. And then he knew. Before walking away, he turned to the corpse and said “Merry Christmas”, in a voice which no one ever expects to hear those words told in. And with that, he went back to completing his purpose."