|Sons of Siculus Fang||260||260||325||Children of Blood: Chance for bonus damage against Campaigns; Extra damage for each additional Sons of Siculus item equipped||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Bloodletter||260||260||325||Children of Blood: Chance for bonus damage against Campaigns; Extra damage for each additional Sons of Siculus item equipped||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Visage||260||260||325||Children of Blood: Chance for bonus damage against Campaigns; Extra damage for each additional Sons of Siculus item equipped||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Embrace||260||260||325||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Grasp||260||260||325||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Shanks||260||260||325||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Stride||260||260||325||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Signet||260||260||325||Random drop from Bastion of Blood (Campaign)|
|Sons of Siculus Steed||345||345||431||Hooves of Blood: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage against Campaigns; Chance to proc twice on the same hit||Bastion of Blood|
Full Set Bonus
|Raid Attack Value: 3031.25|
|Duel Power: 2080|
|I. He was descended from a mighty warlord. This was a secret, one which had been hidden away from the world. For that man's name was so powerful, his deeds so magnificent, its very utterance would invoke envy and enmity in lesser breasts -- bring forth the torches and pitchforks of peasants whose own forebears would have groveled at the warlord's boots.
It was a secret, but Byron knew. His mother told him on the day she died.
|II. He'd returned from school with ripped clothes, bloody nose, cheeks painted with tears and crimson. The other children had mocked him that day. They'd teased him about his father -- derided the penniless man who'd turned to highway robbery to feed his family, but died on his would-be victim's blade before he'd grasped a single coin.
"Look out! It's the bandit's son!"
"No, he weren't a bandit! Got to rob people to be a proper bandit, not just sling yourself onto their swords!"
"Brainless bandit! Brainless bandit!"
"Look out, the brainless bandit boy's gonna cry! Ha ha ha ha!"
|III. Byron had hurled himself at the children, flailing his little fists. He hit one of them before the others beat him to the ground and mauled him, still laughing, taunting as they battered his feeble body.
He wept in his mother's arms. That was when she told him, told him that he didn't have to be ashamed of his family, his blood, his heritage. For his ancestor had been a great warlord. When his tears dried, he asked her for more. Demanded to know the man's name. But his mother bit her lip and said it was a secret. She wouldn't reveal it no matter how much he pestered her, ranting and pleading in turn. Though in the end she silenced him by promising to tell him when he was older.
Then she headed out of their little home, the hovel they possessed because of the mayor's scornful piety and haughty magnanimity, to worship at the pantherium. Minutes later she was dead -- smashed beneath the swerving wheels of a drunkard's cart.
|IV. Thus Byron never learned the truth she'd promised him. But even so, the knowledge that she'd imparted was enough. He was a warlord's scion. Descended from a mighty man of war. He was better than the wretched boys and girls who tormented him.
By day he ignored their jibes now. Byron let the babbling of his inferiors in blood and lineage pass him by unregarded. This displeased them. His nonchalance deprived them of their sport. One of them tried to provoke him by invoking his mother's name -- jeering at her as well as his father, telling him she'd warmed a brothel's beds, or licked boots clean at the mayor's mansion. Byron's eyes didn't so much as flicker. Even when the boy struck him, slapping him so hard his cheek burned with the print of a red palm, he did nothing but walk away.
That night Byron returned home late, slipping into the hovel where he dwelled alone, hands shaking but eyes bright. He took the bloody knife out from his knapsack and hid it under a floorboard.
No one struck a warlord's heir.
As he lay on his mattress, he dreamed he was Carnus the Warwalker's son. Together the two of them reddened the world with their footsteps.
|V. When Byron came of age, the mayor threw him out of the ramshackle dwelling. He told him it was time to make his own way in the world. Byron agreed. He set out for Dracoshire, hitching a ride with a merchant's train of wagons, and didn't look back. His mind was on greater things -- pondering what grand destinies might unfold for the Warwalker's son. But that night he did spare one final thought for the village where he'd lived all his life. He wondered how long it would take them to find the mayor's body at the bottom of the well, and whether anyone would mourn the pompous fool.
In the capital he became a scribe. For he'd listened and learned in school while the others idled, and could read and write well enough. He earned the coin to eke out a meager living while he contemplated his future.
|VI. Greatness attracted the hand of fate. So he'd always believed ever since his mother revealed his ancestry. Years of living in a rat-infested slum, his fingers forever stained with ink, had worn away at that conviction. But his doubts were washed away in blood.
It happened in the dead of night, when moonless gloom drowned the narrow passages between the tenements blocks, and Byron wandered through them with his eyes still bleary from long hours scribing by candlelight. His hand gripped a dagger beneath his robes. The slums had their share of cutpurses, but they would learn their folly if they tried their arms against Carnus' scion.
That very thought lingered in his brain at the moment strong hands grasped him and slammed him against a wall. Red eyes flashed in the darkness, blazing scarlet orbs that seemed to pierce his head and bore into the back of his skull. Something closed around his neck. And the world swam.
|VII. Death whispered in his ear, taunting him like the children once had. Mocking and jeering. Telling him he was going to die a meaningless scribe. But Byron refused. He was the descendant of Carnus the Warwalker, and he wasn't going to perish in a filthy alleyway.
And perhaps the vampire understood this too. Knew that his destiny could not be stopped. For when Byron stabbed at him, piercing his undead flesh with the tip of the dagger's blade, the creature looked him in the eyes, laughed, and pulled Byron's head down -- pressing his lips against the wound.
"Drink," the vampire said. "Drink, amusing mortal."
He flitted away into the night, still laughing, while Byron lay on the cobbles and groaned.
|VIII. When Byron staggered into his room in the grotty boarding house, epiphany was waiting for him in the mirror. No reflection... He'd been turned. Others might have been horrified, their minds reeling from the knowledge that they now numbered among the undead.
Byron merely grinned.
The truth was his, at long last. This was his destiny -- revealed and realized in the same instant. He'd been wrong. It wasn't Carnus the Warwalker's blood that flowed in his veins. The warlord who'd spawned his line was Count Siculus, and now that lineage had visited the dark gift of vampirism on him. The nosferatu had been one of the great count's descendants in darkness. He'd seen fate in Byron's eyes, and so turned him instead of slaying him. Yes! It all made sense!
The young vampire's laughter awoke the echoes of the boarding house, until his neighbours hammered on the walls and shouted for him to stop. Byron killed them all.
|IX. He left Dracoshire that night, leaving bloodless bodies in his wake. A plan was already forming in his brain. It coalesced from the red shadows, taking on its dark and dreadful shape, leading him onward to gore and glory.
Siculus. That was his line, and that would now be his name. He was Bryon Siculus -- worthier to bear a second name than any pathetic mortal aristocrat. And he would make people tremble as the vampire warlord had once done.