❝ᴘᴀx ʙʀιᴛᴀɴɴιcᴀ❞ ᴱᴸᴵᵀᴱ ℒit

An Englishman's Breakfast:

A snack of savage beastie	7.4%	[ 35 ]
A tasty little fanged fiend	6.1%	[ 29 ]
A deliciously advanced roleplay	16.5%	[ 78 ]
Crumpets and tea	24.5%	[ 116 ]
Violence with a dash of chivalry	45.5%	[ 215 ]
Total Votes:			[ 473 ]

[Legal Rehab]

“Over your body the clouds go. high, high and icily and a little flat as if they floated on a glass that was invisible.
Unlike swans, having no reflections. Unlike you, with no strings attatched. All cool, all blue.
Unlike you.” — Sylvia Plath
-----------------
----------------- “WHO DID THAT?!” Blitzen screamed out immediately as he spun around. The urge to tend to his wound was burning. The bullet had plunged deep into his chest, and his heather grey vest was now turning dark red with blood. Damn, Damn, Damn it all. His immediate intention was to pull the bullet out as swift as he could, but the act of doing it himself was degrading. He was not about to look any more of a fool than he already did. Through it all, the mysterious marksman had shot his pride, not his chest. Blitzen focused his eyes of emerald fire like a bird of prey, scouting for any warm body in presence. What crazed bafoon shot him? Such fools did not get away from him so easily. “Show yourself! Do it now and you and your family will have a quick death.” As he taunted the shadows, only his own voice and the ticking of Asa’s heart was all that he could hear. His pursuer was a coward, a dumb coward if he thought hiding would save him. “Avoiding me?” Blitzen spat at the ground, he was sure his saliva was pink with blood. “Continue doing that and I’ll devour you myself, only after I’ve cut open your mother’s throat.”
----------------- Yet, there was still no answer. The only voice was that of the infernal owl, calling out for its mark and hungry for the taste of flesh. Burn Spain, Seek them out, do not leave one human alive in this town until a fool has confessed. He rejected this voice. While the idea of being the man behind Spain's downfall was lovely, it was not his mark. The voice was not easily ignored, the stem of his brain was alive with demonic fire, begging for its retribution. It kept burning more and more as each tick of the adjacent vampire heart only marked a heightened velocity of pain. Tick, Tick, Burn, Tick, Tick, Burn, Tick, burn, Tick, Tick… What was making all that noise? Asa’s heart could not be beating that fast, he cared more about those damned bodies than he did the Owl. Tick Tick Tick Burn. Blitzen’s pupils shrunk and he vaulted atop of a tombstone. He fumbled for the words and almost slipped off the wide grey stone. “Coward! You…” He felt the contents of his skull boiling, “ You can’t….” He clamped down on his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Blitzen couldn’t take the burning; he set aside his pride and tore at the bullet, pulling flesh and his coat off with it.
----------------- The bullet was of no simple make. It had a molly spring as well as a miniscule vial inside. When the bullet entered the flesh, the head of the bullet split apart in barbs down the center, making the act of pulling it out more harmful than the gunshot itself. Tick, Tick, Tick, The bullet also had something in it… it was too quick to be poison; he could not recognize it no matter how familiar he was with the foul liquids. He did not have time to assess this; there was still a killer out there, a sniper even. Tick, Tick, Tick , He couldn’t shake the idea of a crosshair between his eyes.... and the clockwork, he could still hear it. Tick, Tick, Tick. After combining this with his new wound, the burning of the bullet and the ticking, it was becoming hard to remain neutral. I'll kill myself before I am called a fool, he told himself.. Tick, Tick….
----------------- Perhaps she had stolen his confidence. His small absence of ego was given to the woman before him. As she casualy emerged from the bloodshed, the constant ticking belonged to not one, but two mosquitoes before him. Asa, the small bug, and a frail woman… or boy; his vision was truly too hazy to make out the identity of his pursuer. He made himself tread carefully. He was playing a dangerous game in this city, one wrong move and he would end his own life as he knew it. His first instinct was to strike the woman, and show Asa that no man got away with stealing his ego or any sort of theft from Blitzen at all. He would become the beast and devour her like a meaty worm, popping her head off as if it were some sort of garden weed.
----------------- It took great self-control to do away with that notion. He felt the need to convince himself it was better to appear collected, they would not know the massacre his body was going through. Blitzen stood up as best as he could and slung his coat over his wound and around his shoulder. He slumped slightly to make standing easier, but also to look careless. The cold air of Spain cut through his boiling blood. He could not help but realize the mess his body was going through. Goosebumps trickled along his exposed flesh, and sweat perspired from pores, creating a gore of blood and hair. He thought he had never looked better.
----------------- The sound of their clockwork was quickly scowled by a sound even more severe. Her voice. It was unmistakable. It was shrewd, mixed with that of an old grandmother and a British barwench. Both things were not Christa. She was much like rust, once a great leader, and slowly dying away as she had been replaced. He didn’t know much else, other than what idle chit-chat he had heard of that declared much of the same thing. He knew little about her, regardless, He wanted her dead. She started with Asa, he was curious if the doctor would show any sort of respect for the woman, or if he just lacked respect entirely. While she prodded him with remarks, Blitzen took stock of the situation: There were several bodies still unburied, Blitzen bore a weapon and was covered in blood, Asa was kneeling on the ground without a speck of red on him. Asa's silence was unnerving and he realized what was going on. With the weapon in his hand, the numbing drug, the bullet hole in his chest and the blood around him, Blitzen was made to look as though he was the one who slaughtered the Opium Den. Was he expected to truly take the fall for this?
----------------- Christa turned her attention to the rogue,“I know your Midnight Jackal Queen would not like any of this?”
----------------- His brow quivered. What was the Jackal doing associating herself with you? Furthermore my allegiance lies with the highest bidder. Do you think I give a damn what the Queen thinks? He knew these thoughts were mere lies. He did care about the Queen’s opinion, in fact he would not be here if he did not. However, He did not reveal either answer, and kept his silence. Christa would not know him as a loyal soldier nor as a coniving traitor. She would know him only by name, the only thing she needed. Blitzen was desperate for a trophy to bring back to his queen, but perhaps Christa was even more desperate for some sort of idol than he was.
----------------- She continued to prod at the doctor. He was still confused, suddenly the idea of Asa’s alliance had lost its importance. He did not know who he was when he toyed with the idea of protecting him, Asa wasn’t like to protect the Russian as well, and he had yet to proclaim himself as the true murderer. Blitzen had spent so much time without becoming the infernal beast, that he forgot the impact that the Horned Owl had on his life. If anything, the infernal owl brought a good deal of common sense. There are better prizes than a doctor.
----------------- The frail woman turned to Blitzen once more. She had a slack in her shoulders and a hunch in her posture. He looked to her dark eyes, the only part of the woman that was beautiful. Still, almost much like the little Absolem, she had confidence well-beyond her appearance.He wondered if this was some sort of trend with leeches.
----------------- “I propose a deal, Russian,” her eyes did not meet his. Good. “A favor for a favor, “Your life and your honor now, and you shall owe this vampire a future favor of my choosing.”
----------------- "You Cu-" Instantly Blitzen stopped himself. Christa believed Blitzen was responsible for the murders, and Asa hadn't spoken out. If he kept silent he would owe Christa a favor, but also be known as the one who murdered these men. He laughed to himself, this could easily be turned into profit. He bit his tongue as quick as he could and once more tasted a hint of blood, but he could not stop as both of his personalities rose in caucus of laughter. Did she not know she was making a deal with the Great Deceiver himself? It appears this one fancies a gamble, Malphas.
----------------- “You want to make a game of this do you?” The heavy Russian accent left his voice as quick as light, and a clear undeterred speech left his lips. “You just want a bit of fun, is that it?” The pain of his wound was almost unnoticeable, and he kept one hand muffling his coat over his wound, as well as one hand on the new weapon he had just latched to his belt. “You have my honor,” He fumbled the fingers at his breast, the irony was getting to him. The idea of it all was about as productive as trying to get oranges from an apple tree.
----------------- “Your silence for my honor.” He cast his head over his shoulder, ”Any reference you seek will tell you I am just bursting at the seams with high honor, wouldn’t you say Absolem?” He still wondered if the bug had yet realized the he was the Russian’s mark only a few moments ago. He turned his attention back to Christa. “So be it, name this favor and it shall be done. You will have one request, no more and no less, just as you have provided me.”
----------------- His pride had returned and if he was bursting at the seams with anything, it was his own self-satisfaction. To this date, Blitzen still had one object on his mind, and there was no request this vampire whelp could make that would deter him from his prize. This was all assuming she would still be alive to make claim on this request. He almost counted on this in the gamble. Blitzen would get his part of the deal and Christa would be long dead before she ever got to claim her end. There was also the idea of Blitzen being gone by then. Once he had his prize, he wasn’t like to stay with the lot of beasts, especially if they went back to grungy Londontown. Through it all, he was still very aware of the situation before him. Even in the face of victory he could still see death staring back at him, he must not make any mistake here. These two could end him, and no search party was like to find his remains. As Christa threw the limp man to the floor after her feast, Blitzen examined his clothes. They were in much better repair than his own. He wore a long white coat fastened with many pockets, and a nice rifle as well. Perhaps he had more of those new bullets with him? He was still curious about those contraptions, even with the current situation. He was quite thankul that the vampire dragged his body over to him.
----------------- “If you’re quite finished with him, I’d like his possessions. He won’t need any of them where he’s going.” I’ll meet you in hell scared man, and show you what true fear is. With all the talk of afterlife, he wondered if Asa was going to bury this one, or if he was still intent on burying the dead at all. He knelt to the body and grabbed ahold of the rifle, of which had a newly sharpened bayonet. If he was going to swear on his life, he’d have to invoke a small amount of bloodletting. Such precious stakes are not to be toyed with, even in certain victory. The moonlight casted down on the sharpened steel and the Russian saw his own reflection, drawing him to his own presence.
He looked normal at first, but without even noticing , the face on the bayonet become one that was not his own but of a stranger he could not recall. He looked not like himself at all and then as he had always known all at once. Blood ran down his forehead and over his eyes before falling down his chin in rivers of black crimson. It was too much of a mystery and he couldn’t decode this image. What are you trying to tell me? He struggled to put a name to the perfect stranger, but his mind was silent. He blinked and brought his sharp eyes to Christa, now wasn’t the time for pagan parlor tricks. “You have my blood, this shall not be broken.” He brought the blade slowly across his palms and a wash of blood cascaded down the gun in droplets before ending completely.
----------------- He would keep this meeting brief. He did not want either of them to know any more than they needed to know from him, and did not want to stay before more favors were asked. After hearing both of their words, he dropped the rifle and it made a heavy clank as it hit the floor. As nice as it was, it was like to draw attention, and he needed to be invisible before he took flight to the island. As he started to put on the dead man’s clothes, he wondered what his profession was. Did he make those bullets or did he purchase them? I wonder if he had someone he was trying to impress. With the new white coat keeping him warm and billowing in the wind, he addressed both of his new "friends". “I believe we’re done here. Good morrow to both of you, comrades.” His eyes locked to little Absolem, he was so quick to let Blitzen take the fall for his drugged-up massacre, he wondered just what kind of honor the bug held?
----------------- Bugger that, what can I buy with honor? On foot, he made the treacherous journey back to Thunder.

[Hamletmaschine]

Jack, with Bernardo as a mild crutch, made his way off the ship, intentions of finding peace and quiet where he could find some petty soul to feed his own little black heart.
The feeling of sand beneath his feet was a strange sense of welcoming. He had become so accustomed to the sound and feel of the wooden floorboards. Their hollow echoes under heeled boot, the spring they gave each step. This sanded land was foreign. Jack had never been to a beach. Never even left London in his lifetime. It was a strange sensation. It moulded to his foot with each step, slipping under toe and the reforming to his heel. His face contorted into frustrated confusion. This was much more than his weary brain could handle.

He sensed Ambrose' bold aura before he needed to look up and see the Were approaching. To his left, Bernardo's heart quickened and his barriers began to construct a castle around his emotions. Jack had remembered clearly every sensation he felt when Ambrose and him would work together, and all he could smell was Bernardo from his skin, bolder and hotter than the scent of the fish and the saltwater. The feelings had been old, deeply rooted jealousy, from a place he did not know existed. He hated that they roomed together, they would converse and be friends openly where Jack could not, should not.
He began to feel that same feeling now as he approached slowly, sauntering with that smug, powerful domineer. Jack lightly touched his hand to the small of Bernardo's back in a gesture of calm, and subconscious possessiveness.
He removed it as quickly as he initiated it when Ambrose finally spoke. He had been watching them intently the whole process. Jack had felt him brushing his form with his senses, not just his gaze. He was searching. Let him look... Jack was not afraid.

"Hardly." Jack replied curtly, almost with a hint of annoyance, and disgust, "Barnardo was just helping me with the final clearing out." He finished. His lips tight, eyes narrowed, never once glancing to Bernardo but rather staring down the Tiburon as if to say there was nothing further to discuss. After a silent moment, he straightened a little, his jaw shifting, "What else do you smell, Ambrose? Enlighten me." he challenged.
The words from his mouth weren't his own. His jealousy would be his downfall, but in his state, after everything he had fought for, he was not going to lose this battle.
Jack's posture straightened, lips curling back from their thinned line, to create a snarl. The words the shark had uttered back cut deeper into the wound created, and Jack nearly shoved Bernardo aside as he burst forward, anger giving him a vigorous boost, "The only back you need to watch is your own, Ambrose." He spat, continuing to follow forward briskly, "Because some lowlife bloodsucker might know best how to silence a were much like yourself." Jack found himself only inches from the beast, enough to smell his scent, feel the heat from his body.

The ticking of his heart was steady, but weakened. It wavered, and so did his muscles, begging for mercy. But his anger wouldn't have any of it. He would not let this down. He refused to let Ambrose win this petty game. So what if he knew their secret.... So what...
Would he honestly say anything? He left it open enough to assume he did know, but what if he actually didn't have a clue? It wasn't safe to let him live freely with that knowledge. He wasn't the type to tell, but he would hold it over Jack's head any time he could, dangling like a guillotine.

It was that ******** smile. He hated that smile. So when Ambrose took the smallest inch forward, Jack's hands clenched into fists and a cold shudder ran over his skin. "You think you can kill me, Jack?" Ambrose teased.
He snapped.
His fists came up to spread out flat against the were's chest and shoved him back, hard and certain. Jack's eyes flashed crimson as his snarl curled down. Taking a few steps forward, his body tensed, heart faltering again sharply. The action within his chest only frustrated Jack. Why was he imperfect? What was happening inside his chest? It sent his temper flaring and Jack found himself coming in to proceed another attack at Ambrose.
His eyes wavered, blurring, clouding over for a moment. With every punch forward, the exertion weakened his muscles more and more. Fatigue was settling in very quickly. Like a mortal scrapping without food or water, he was faltering at an alarming rate, but his emotions kept him going on, like machine.
And the feel of the b*****d's skin under his fist was just... pleasurable. He did not care for what happened around him in this moment. This was a personal war. And the pain of it felt so damn good!

Until he was halted in his tracks. Ambrose had snatched the next punch in Jack's own tired charade. His eyes widened, suddenly awake and aware. Just as Micah had taught him, the training instinctively became every movement, every breath. He waited for the next attack with a tempered patience.
The shark did not take the move Jack anticipated. Instead, he twisted Jack arm to the point of near dislocation. Jack’s body instinctively tensed and hunched to protect what was becoming damaged, but Ambrose came in with a heavy-weighted punch to his hunched form.
Jack staggered back, feet catching in the sand like it was the demons of Hell tearing him down where he belonged. Catching himself, his breathing heavy, he wasted no time in returning the attack, just as he had learnt. Jack’s body was the weapon. Ambrose was the trigger while Jack’s anger was the gunpowder. His fist exploded into a war scene across the Were’s skin and bones. He would not let up. Each movement danced into another, and with blind, red, fury fueling Jack’s attacks, it was dangerous to stop now.
But as he gave strike after strike, Ambrose’ smile only became more wicked and taunting. It had Jack nearly screaming from the bottom of his lungs in rage. How was it that he could not defeat the one thing he loathed?!

Jack pushed all his weight into a solid hook to the hardened jaw of the beast, but the man only absorbed it… like he had almost been playing Jack all along. Surprise and sudden shock gave Ambrose enough time to step in and take Jack brutally to the sands. The impact was softened but only taken away with the fist to his bruised stomach, like the buckshot of a horse. Jack coughed up blood until weight on his throat had him tense again and eyes struggling to focus on Ambrose’ face above his. His breathing was shallow and heavy, with the iron heart struggling hard to keep up as the adrenaline began to drain into the sands enveloping the vampire’s broken form. The ringing mixed with the sound of the ocean tides muffled the world around him, eyes closing slowly as Ambrose leaned in to whisper, “Micah tried to kill me many times. You're not quite at his level yet, my friend. But you do have balls, and I admire that. Get some rest ... and take a bath." Jack’s lungs sucked in their mass of air as Ambrose left his throat, and Jack’s eyes opened partially to the grey, slightly stary sky above. He took a moment before he lowered them to Ambrose’ form leaving him beaten and behind. The Lieutenant, Maeve, glanced back to him with a hardened glance, speaking something his ears chose not to hear. Where was Bernardo?
His face contorted as pain in body summed up to cluster into his chest. Closing his eyes slowly and pursing his eyes, Jack came back down to reality of the situation and nearly felt the urge to weep. What was he doing? What had he done? Lord help him Bernardo had shaken his head in shame and left the scene without a second thought. Jack did not want his lover to see him like this.
His fingertips felt each grain of sand beneath them and they slowly dug into its depth, taking in fists of the dry, hard grit. Jack had never felt a deeper shame.

[Phoelidae]

Kestrel offered her the chance to sell her soul, for the second time in her existence. She had sold it to Nihilo before she was old enough to know the difference, and now her twin brother, so like that other vampire, wanted her to pledge herself to a new master. And for what? To save her sorry life? It wasn’t worth anything anyway, and she’d much rather spit in her brother’s face and die for the pleasure than spend the rest of her miserable existence polishing his boots. A combination of anger and satisfaction flickered across her brother’s unfamiliar face – he hadn’t wanted to let her live anyway, not after she’d done him the insult of removing his pretty head.

The blade rose, flashing white in the moonlight, and suddenly, strangely, Ataraxia felt at peace. Truly at peace, as she could not remember feeling in … well, forever. It was over. Finally she was done with this long, pointless, miserable existence. No more duty, no more numbness, no more hunger, no more haunted memories of pain and torture. The purple-grey sky no longer seemed oppressive and unchanging, but seemed instead like it might actually carry on at any moment, and fade at long last into the deep indigo of true night as the world went on turning without her. The glittering arc of the knife was shockingly beautiful, not unlike the graceful dance of her wires, and she wasn’t afraid so much as she was … eager. There was something incredibly liberating about realizing that she was about to die, and that she didn’t care. It was for the best, really. The Red Death exhaled softly and closed her violet eyes, listening to the slithering sound of the knife as it cut through the air toward her throat. Finally.

But fate always had liked to ******** with her. Instead of the wet sounds of blood and flesh, a couple final mechanical beats and then endless, peacefully echoing silence – there was the vicious crack of gunshot and a wild hiss of anger and pain.

It all happened very quickly, and yet so slowly she almost couldn’t follow it. Kestrel was gone, spitting and snarling as two more shots fired over her head, the beach suddenly alive with a flurry of sand and motion as Ataraxia opened her eyes. The sky was leaden again, heavy and stagnant, pressing down like it would smother the whole miserable world and settle its weight once more on her shoulders. So be it. In half a second the vampiress was back on her feet, streaking across the sand to close long fingers around the sword’s hilt, even as Julienne pressed her gun to Kestrel’s head. He smirked and chided as though he had not a care in the world, and Ataraxia felt hatred rise again, twice as hot as ever before for the man who dared to dangle peace in front of her and then snatch it away again (for she was far too proud a creature to ever end her own life, however miserable it may be). Who was he? Who had Kestrel Paradin ever been to play with the lives of others, to mock everything that anyone held dear? He had been a boy once, with dreams and fears like any other; she had known him before he was a man, before he was a vampire, and before he was a king. And yet there he sat, laughing behind another man’s features, risen from the dead and now twice as certain that he was a god, entitled to anything and everything, invincible. But he was still only a dog, and this time she would make sure she killed him like one, and that he stayed dead.

She could not feel the hilt of the sword under her fingers, but her fist clenched tighter around it all the same as she advanced on her twin brother. Julienne was staring at him with an expression the queen would puzzle through later – for now, she told her to step aside, and her general did, albeit reluctantly. Ataraxia’s violet eyes narrowed as she stood over her kneeling enemy, and for an instant she saw a little boy, kneeling before her as she “knighted” him with a branch. Only then Kestrel had snatched their makeshift sword and said that he would be stealing her crown. Funny, how these things turned around, childish games twisted into true life and death. And Kestrel, always irreverent, laughed at her too, called her broken and said that Julienne was only a less broken version of herself. She’d had enough.

Without a word she brought the sword down, her full weight and strength behind the blow, her wild eyes greedy for his blood. She would take his head off, and then she would crush his cured heart with her bare hands and toss the cogs into the sea –

The sword stopped, the impact jarring her arm and forcing her to take a step back as the momentum of the blow was turned back on her. Her eyes went huge, unable to believe the sight before her – Kestrel’s blood-soaked fingers wrapped around the naked blade, stopping it dead a hand-span from his throat. As though it took him scarcely any effort at all to halt a death-blow that should have severed his spine and cut the head clear off his shoulders – in fact, a death-blow that had done just that. And now he wrenched the sword from her stunned fingers as though it was nothing more than that broken stick from their childhood.

He stood, sword in hand, and Ataraxia didn’t even move. Just watched, along with the other three women on the beach, as Kestrel walked and talked, just as he always had. He’d always been a great one for talking, Kes. A master of words … not unlike Nihilo, now she thought on it. He was laughing, laughing at the women who challenged him, his head tossed back as though he had not a care in this world nor the next, because he didn’t. What he’d just done was impossible, even for a vampire … maybe even the Midnight Jackal could not have stopped the blade with such ease. And yet he seemed unfazed by everything, focusing his whole attention on Mercia as he crossed the sand toward her. What impossible trick was this? More of Kestrel’s classic lies? Or had he truly done what it appeared he had done? But even as she watched, silent and uncertain, a blood-slicked bullet fell heavily to the sand, expelled from his shoulder by regenerative speed unlike anything she’d ever seen.

First Julienne and then Noora challenged him as he revealed the identity Ataraxia had known from the moment they locked eyes. In the face of such hostility any other deposed king would have faltered, or hesitated at the very least – but not Kestrel. Escaping death had only swelled his ego to unbearable proportions, and done nothing at all to dim his showmanship.

”My good woman,” Kestrel crooned, flicking his eyes toward Mercia’s general when she dared to claim there was more to this war than sex and blood. ”No there isn’t. There is nothing more than what each of us wants and can get! Of course this is a game! Life is a game, or I would be dead and rotting instead of standing before you!” He was, for all appearances, having the time of his life … death … existence? If only Ataraxia could make her mind work, if only it would run at the swift speed to which she was accustomed, she was certain that her capable general and the eminently practical Noora both had good points. Kestrel was wrong, he was foolish, he could not come here and make a mockery of a war he had died and left behind, a battle with the Templars of which he knew nothing, did not even have a stake, and he absolutely could not simply take Mercia. Surely, surely he was wrong about everything …

But she couldn’t do it. Ataraxia had always known her own mind, her beliefs, and the course of action she would take next. But now … as she looked from Kestrel’s new form to Mercia, with blood trickling down her throat and her mouth reddened from her general’s lifeblood, and then all around her at the tossed sand and this empty beach, the scene of so much that would never be spoken beyond its sands … she did not know. With death sweeping toward her throat she had realized so much, and now she did not know how to live with it; wasn’t … wasn’t Kestrel right? Her whole life she had been driven by duty and pride, always living for something other than herself and her own desires, convinced that she served some higher cause even if she did not know exactly what it was … and yet it was Kestrel, Kestrel who had served nothing and no one but himself and his own whims, who had lived and died by his selfishly reckless credo, who now stood, healthy, reborn, powerful beyond belief, and apparently quite happy, poised to blackmail not one but two deadly immortal races in order to reclaim his throne and take the god-like Jackal for his own. Kestrel had everything. And what had she, Ataraxia? A life so numb and miserable that she was not only willing but eager to die, a throne she did not want and yet was loathe to lose, a woman she was about to lose to Kestrel when she hadn’t even realized that she wanted to have some claim over her. In short, nothing. To Kestrel’s everything.

Ataraxia could feel the cool intensity of Julienne’s eyes, and the weight of Noora’s gaze as well. Both looking to her, certain that she would step forward and cut her brother down, deny his mad request to the Jackal. "Take me. Allow me your cabin and company. My darling little sister will also allow me to accompany all of you. And...joint leadership...though I am a king in my own right, the little brat who killed me can help me...manage my oh-so loyal vampires..." The Red Death could not think, could not process nor understand what was happening, did not know what she ought to do. Fight Kestrel, surely – there could not be two vampire rulers! Force him to change his terms, or die in the attempt. His terms were absolutely unacceptable. But why? Why should she give a damn about a crown she did not want or a woman she lived to kill?

Maybe the why didn’t matter. Perhaps she ought to take a page out of Kestrel’s book, and for once damn the consequences in favor of what she wanted. What did she want? Kestrel’s head on a plate. The vampires under her own command. To feel. And to feel … Mercia. The Jackal. Yes, she wanted the Jackal. The silence stretched as Ataraxia looked from Kestrel to Noora to Julienne and, finally, to Mercia. She caught the Midnight Jackal’s golden eyes full force, as she had done only a handful of times, and gave her a look that was impossible to read but very, very dangerous in a way the Red Death had never been before. A way that said she finally realized that she had nothing to lose, but everything to gain.

”No.” She said, with a softness that had all the force of a hammer-blow. ”No. He holds the cards, and whatever he is, whatever he has become, we do not know enough to risk this fate the Templars might bring down on both out people. Believe me, I hate it more than either of you, but …” The Red Death moved forward then, and the Paradin twins circled each other for a moment, and Kestrel’s smile was hugely triumphant. ”We have no choice. Besides, the Jackal can handle my brother, of that I have no doubt. But …”

Ataraxia turned on her brother to face Mercia instead, inclining her head politely, as though it were her own idea, before she whirled back toward Kestrel. ”She will be no slave of yours, Kestrel, nor a pet. And I will make sure of it. You will do this on my terms. I could lead the vampires against you, and they would fight, for they respect me as they never did you – and Jokelainen over there would gladly find a few weres I’m sure to help me destroy you as I am only too eager to do.” Ataraxia smiled then, and it was a rare, chillingly beautiful thing, at odds with the intensity of her expression but somehow suiting her face. ”We do not know if you are as valuable as you say you are, but it is too dangerous to risk. Unless, of course, you prove yourself to be too much a threat to be worth it.” Ataraxia closed with her brother, and it was a fearsome sight, if only to see two such dangerous creatures so utterly unafraid of each other, steeped in history no one but they would ever understand. ”You serve me, Kestrel. You serve me, and you answer to me. King you may have been, and you may have information we need, but I am Queen by my own right.” Violet eyes flashed, as Ataraxia turned to look at every woman on the beach.

”Are we agreed, my fellow leaders? I am sure you do not trust me,” she hissed, looking at Noora and Mercia with flashing eyes, ”but I think you can trust me to keep him in check. I have killed him before, and I will do it again only too gladly.” The Red Death moved toward the Jackal, leaning over her as her general tensed at the side of the ever-fearless beast queen. Ataraxia’s eyes followed a trail of blood, that incredible ambrosial blood that could make her feel, down Mercia’s throat, before flicking to meet her blood-gold gaze. ”And while you may not appreciate the reason behind it, you can trust that I will jealously guard my prey.” Her eyes flicked to Noora’s, silent understanding passing between the two women who would rather see anything than Mercy in Kestrel’s clutches, and then to Julienne, who she trusted would follow her.

Then, finally, she turned toward Kestrel, imparting in the private silence of their minds her terms. Kestrel’s eyes widened … and then his face broke into a dangerous sort of smile. ”Touche, sister, touché.” He ran a hand through his hair, considering, and then, with a smile that said he’d like to disembowel her for cornering him, inclined his head. ”Very well, Ataraxia. I shall meet your terms in exchange for co-leadership of the vampires, and your … protection.” He sneered the word as though it was history’s greatest joke, but he agreed all the same, and that was all she cared about. Without another word Ataraxia turned on her heel, crossing the sand in long booted strides and jerking her chin for Julienne to follow as Kestrel said something to Mercia behind her. He will die, Julienne, have no fear on that count, she hissed into her general’s mind. It is only a waiting game. Now go, find our vampires, and tell them of Kestrel’s return so that his reappearance is not such a stunning development. I want no one impressed by this trick of his, cheating death. You have served me well thus far – continue to do so, and you may have your vengeance for whatever betrayal he dealt you before he dies again. I will meet with you shortly, I’ve one matter of business to take care of. And with that she split off into the trees, inhaling deeply as she focused her thoughts on one particular presence that would not outlive this night – a certain former general, who would not be alive to greet her resurrected king.

[Pax Britannica]

The loss of blood was making it semi-difficult for the Midnight Jackal to focus. Nonetheless, there was nothing about her general appearance to suggest that she was anything less than utterly in control of the situation. Her lithe arms were crossed over her chest, her eyes honed in on the vampire tumult happening across thirty feet of sand. The blonde beast felt water lap against her ankles as the ocean gently ebbed and flowed. She was impressed by the sea's ability to simply ignore every petty, mortal trifle happening on the beach. Perhaps that was how God must have felt, if there was one. Just watching the world's horrors impassively, knowing that it would all transpire, fade, die.

Mercia felt Noora's strong presence beside her. The female was worried for her, though she was intelligent enough not to show it too obviously, and make Mercia look weak. She was regaining her strength and her acuity by the second, her body regenerating the massive amount of blood lost. She needed food, she thought, watching the vampires act out a scene from Julius Caesar. Her eyes tracked Kestrel's movements, perhaps something that no other on the beach could do except for, maybe, Ataraxia. He was extraordinarily fast. So fast that, now, he might even rival Mercia's legendary speed. He had always been stronger, but the idea of him as fast as she was...unsettling. What was he? Abomination. A god? She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. His blood smelled different, naturally, now that he was in a new body. But under that she could detect the slightest bit of chemicals. Her blood red eyes narrowed, focused like a microscope on his arm, bare now that he had torn his shirt from his torso in his passions...

There was a slight puncture in his skin. A needle mark. And one in which he had to have been repeatedly stabbed by, over and over again for his natural regenerative abilities not to have healed immediately. It was faint. Barely there. But it was there and Mercia detected it. Mortals and their human science...always trying to play God...and usually failing miserably. She wondered if Kestrel would succumb, like so many other charnel-house failures to the humans' mad science. And still...she could not help but admire him, in some twisted way, as he easily commanded authority with a reckless sort of political brutality. Ah, so the dandy was now politicking much more like a real king... Mercia was more than a little Draconian, Machiavellian in her sovereignty, and she much more appreciated the by-might-by-right sort of ethos. Kestrel was certainly taking what he wanted.

Ataraxia was back on her feet, lithe and dangerous, slender and yet lethal. His twin was powerful in her own right; Mercia would have been a fool not to have recognized as much. And even more than that, she commanded the loyalty of her vampire general in a way that Kestrel had never achieved with his miserable, weak little toady priest. Ataraxia had political elegance as well as a pretty, ruthless streak. Whereas Mercia commanded by blood and strength and a brute display of power, Ataraxia was savvy. Kestrel was too much of a fop to rule like Mercia did. In fact, the Jackal's brow rose silently when the reborn vampire acquiesced to his sister's terms of engagement. She would rule. He would be her guest. His flashy grin and acceptance did not surprise Mercia too much. He had always been much more interested in the game, instead of the battle.

And when he turned his eyes on her, she knew what his game had become. There was a feverish light in his eyes when he looked at her. She was his new obsession and game. His new prize. Mercia met his green-brown gaze directly. She quirked her lips and shook her head with a dubious smirk. Noora moved in front of her, insulting the vampire lord roundly. The Jackal looked on with a mocking amusement. Her eyes flicked to Ataraxia, now golden with the danger mostly behind them. The moment she met those deadly violet eyes, she was interested by the level of ardor in them. She was almost as obsessed as her brother, Mercia thought. Ah, but who wasn't obsessed these days with the idea of being the one to once and for all, kill the Midnight Jackal? She was a legend. A god. Kill her and her entire race was doomed. The were-beasts were less prone to organized warfare, animals that they were. Mercia was the one thing cementing them all together. Her power and prestige as the most powerful being walking the earth was one of the reasons that the much diminished ranks of were-beasts, vastly outnumbered by vampires, were still such a formidable force.

When one side had a god of war fighting beside them, numbers didn't matter in the face of that zeal, that powerful morale.

It was a title and reputation rightly earned of course. Mercia watched the two vampire leaders come to a silent agreement, their eyes fastened on one another. This was about power and hatred and...in some part...her, Mercia realized. Though, oblivious as she was, she did not understand the...more...carnal aspects of the twins' feud. She presumed that they only vied for the honor of trying to kill her. Not touching her, not caressing her, not tasting the ruby teardrops of her blood... Regardless...

"Both of these vampire rulers will be sorely disappointed, Noora," she said, chuckling darkly, her health and power returning to her. Mercia looked calm, collected and unruffled by the vampire throne exchanging so many hands in such a short time. She cared little for politics and less for vampire politics. Vampires, humans, they all died the same. "They bicker like fishwives over me, as if they forget that I belong to no one and nothing," she continued, and her eyes slid from crimson glory to golden again, "And that neither of them has what it takes to destroy me."

Then, the Jackal just..turned her back and began to walk away, gesturing to her general. "Come Noora, leave the blood-drinkers to their family squabbles. I am famished. And I smell a feast," she called over her shoulder, walking gracefully over the sand, barely leaving a footprint. She slipped into the shadows of the rainforest and glided over the foliage. Her general kept pace beside her as they leisurely sped through the verdant green and toward the encampment. She did not want to leave Noora back there with two vampire leaders and a general. She would have been too tempting a target.

"I need to eat. I am pleased to see my orders carried out," Mercia said, breaking through the line of trees and brush to the clearing, where beasts were feasting beside huge, roaring pits and fires, the smell of fish and wild boar roasting on the blazing flames. There were so many of them. Mercia's heart swelled to see them like this. Like real soldiers. Camped out around a fire with food and conversation, their bodies tight and athletic, their eyes dangerous and wild. She looked up at the overshadowed moon. Her gaze dropped down and she quickly located the lieutenant, walking beside the tall, dark Spaniard. A few vampires were still loitering about however. She wondered why they had not made for the mainland and the hunt. There was no vampire threat at the time being, Mercia assessed with warm, golden eyes. The heads of the beasts gathered around the fires jerked up at her presence. She walked with the bearing and posture of a warlord, as she picked a path toward an empty fireside, where a juicy, delicious-smelling wild boar glistened over the flames. She sat down on what used to be the trunk of a tree, ripped straight out of the earth for a makeshift bench.

A beast slipped over and carved several slices of the meat off of the pig and skewered them with a sharpened stick. Needless to say they didn't have fine china. Mercia ate with surprising cleanliness and efficiency, polishing off nearly six pounds of boar and then moving on to the succulent wild pineapples. To an untrained eye, she looked like a pretty girl of no more than twenty, eating alone, unfazed by lack of company, though most eyes were trained on her, watching her out of the corner of their eye. She sliced a wedge of pineapple and bit into it, licking her lips of the shimmering, sweet nectar and gazing quietly into the fire, her strength returning to her in full...

[Blitzkrieg_Baron]

Al the while, the waves lapped against the shore, a dull crash underscoring each voice; Kestrel’s sardonic drawl, Ataraxia’s icy sneer… It was almost soothing. Almost. The realization that Kestrel would, as ever, get what he wanted fell like a blow to the gut. It tasted like ash, thick on her tongue. And all for your sake. What are you, that they want you so? she thought, peering through lowered eyelashes at Mercia. What would they do if you were gone? If they didn’t have you to fight over? Her finger traced over the trigger of her revolver…

No. Not now, at least. Julienne drew herself together, forcing her hands still behind her back. Ataxia was speaking again “Are we agreed, my fellow leaders? I am sure you do not trust me, but I think you can trust me to keep him in check. I have killed him before, and I will do it again only too gladly. And while you may not appreciate the reason behind it, you can trust that I will jealously guard my prey.” The violet eyes of the queen fell heavy on her, and Julienne bowed her head under te weight of that gaze. She would serve. However distasteful the command, she would serve. It was what she did. It only remained, then, for his answer..

“Very well, Ataraxia. I shall meet your terms in exchange for co-leadership of the vampires, and your … protection.” So, then. Things were decided, and once again Julienne swallowed the gall in her throat, her face cool and impassive. She fell in step behind Ataraxia, hovering half a step behind, sand sliding under her feet. He will die, Julienne, have no fear on that count, Ataraxia hissed into the general’s mind. It is only a waiting game. Now go, find our vampires, and tell them of Kestrel’s return so that his reappearance is not such a stunning development. I want no one impressed by this trick of his, cheating death. You have served me well thus far – continue to do so, and you may have your vengeance for whatever betrayal he dealt you before he dies again. I will meet with you shortly, I’ve one matter of business to take care of. Ataraxia spun away in a swish of red hair.

For a moment, she could not move. Julienne simply stood, and watched Ataraxia go.
our vampires…
you may have your vengeance…
you have served me well…
…served me well
The words echoed in time with the steady tik-tok tik-tok beneath her chest. Julienne closed her eyes. “Thank you” she breathed softly. He eyes flicked open. Now, then. There was work to be done.
---------------------------------------------
The vampires assembled were restless and uneasy, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves like rushing water. Julienne looked out across the crowd, one hand hooked over gun, jaw tight. “I will not mince words with you. Kestrel Paradin is back.” The noise rose as a wave, sweeping up and crashing down with a thundering roar.
“What in –”

“How could h–”

“Then she has no right to –”
“He can’t b –”

“…all lies, they’re lying”
“But now, why now?”

“…welcome him back, if you ask me…”


BANG
Silence. A gull shrieked in the distance. Smoke wafted lazily from the muzzle of her revolver. “Enough. Kestrel Paradin is back.” One man, a ragged cigar clamped between his fangs, ventured a wary step forward. “He died, though. People can’t come back after they’ve died. ‘S not possible” A murmur of assent rippled out behind him. Julienne arched one eyebrow, fixing him with a dry, piercing stare. “Clearly they can. It seems to me, sir that you yourself would not be standing with us today had someone not cut your beating heart from your chest and replaced it. If you survived that, then obviously it is impossible to kill you, so what could you have to be afraid of?”
Her gaze swept out over the crowd.

“His return was unanticipated, but it is unremarkable. The least of you is greater than Kestrel Paradin, because when you were called, when you were needed, you came. Resurrections are ten-a-penny these days, but loyalty… I would rather have a single loyal soul to stand by me than any petty, latter-day Lazarus.” Julienne shrugged dismissively. “So he rose once. But I have found that relying on a man to always…rise to the occasion may prove singularly disappointing.” A quiet rush of laughter rose up from the women in the crowd. “Indeed, I would count on any man here to get up faster than him.” Julienne smirked.

“Kestrel Paradin is back. You may not recognize him; he has gained a new face in his death.” Her voice grew suddenly grave. “You will not seek it out. Should he command you, you will obey him, so long as it does not go against another order. You will treat him with all due respect. But you will not go after him, nor seek him out for any reason, good or ill. Anyone caught doing so will answer to me, and to her. He is our ally. For the time being. Now. All of you, go. Get some food. Get some rest while you can. You will be called upon soon enough, and I have no doubt you will prove yourselves worthy of it.” Julienne nodded curtly and strode away, motioning to two vampires near the front. “You and you. See that a room is made ready for our new guest aboard the main ship.” They nodded and scurried away.

Only when she was alone did Julienne allow her posture to relax. Gott. Rallying the troops. How long had it been? She pressed her folded hands against her lips. “How in hell have I come here?” Julienne scoffed ruefully. Now. Now then, what to do next? The Were were occupied at their own camp, the vampires informed, preparations were being made for Kestrel’s return, Mercia does not concern me at the moment, however much the rest of them want her.
“Well. I suppose then, that is it time to find a Paradin.” Her lips twisted. “One way or another.”

[Berylis]

These being the words of Asa S. Danforth....
"Mens insana in corpore insano-- an unhealthy mind in an unhealthy body."

A crack rang through the dark, a crack he had heard before, at the War of the Gods between the elder vampires and were. On that dark evening, he had expected an internecine war, until an unknown party tipped its hand. One who fully deserved his hate, for what they had done in the name of God. Yes, that had been the first night he’d heard that crack, ringing out again and again as the Templars rained the fire of heaven down on her foes. Or the fires of Hell, the metal from the depths of the earth, Hades’ domain. I know not the difference anymore. Yes. Men of Christ. It was a blasphemy. And the propagator of that shot, an elderly man, had mistaken Blitzen for the propagator of the murders. How could little Asa be responsible for such a massacre? Ha! Ha! Ha! He realized that he would need to defend himself from the Templar, but in the twilight and out of his right mind, Asa wasn’t sure whether or not he wished to do so. Oh, how tempting, how wondrous it would be to lay this burden down, pass this cup to one who can handle the burden of repentance. Death loomed before him in the face of that hardened Templar. Alls you have to do, Asa, is confess, and he will take the shot.

But a second crack came that night, and Asa watched as the Templar’s eyes opened wide, taking in the horror of his own impending death. Christa the Christian. The leader that Julienne had sought out those first few hours of Asa’s acquaintance with her. And even now, Christa seemed to be creating the situation to fit her needs – or at least, that was what Asa assumed. I’ve seen such a person before, in New York. Irish Catholic. Fireman’s gang, Engine 5. The men called him the Fixer. Asa did not know whether he should inform Christa of the truth of the matter, providing she hadn’t deduced it already, from the state of his clothes, or whether the truth even mattered in the Jihad against the were. Mutely, Asa let Christa take stock of the situation. She commands the respect of Julienne. So I shall trust her. As a favor for my beloved friend – and because I know not what the hell else to do.

First, Christa interviewed him. It seemed she, too, did not believe him capable of what he had done. Or even of being able to take care of himself. Shame on Julienne, he repeated silently to himself, wondering if Christa was expressing her dissatisfaction with losing her superior position, and thus trying to find fault with her successor. Christa’s next words, however, revealed her true angle: Julienne needn’t know about your morning activities. Ah. Christa was doing him a favor. Seeking him as an ally. I know this language. I also know that right now I have little choice.

“Your grace,” Asa said, lowering his head as supplicant, as if she still held her power. If this was her angle, he was playing to it, though his addled mind could not tell if he was doing right or wrong, so he simply decided to observe what would follow.

Christa interviewed Blitzen, trying to manipulate him to her advantage, just as she had done with him. Did Blitzen even care for her silence? The Russian had struck Asa as little better than a ruffian, little better than those wild-dog teenagers who ran around garroting travelers for their watches – or that odd timepiece in my chest, ticking away. The were did not like the sound of the vampiric heart, he had been told, as they somehow journeyed successfully to Spain. Still, the fact that he was a were – and presumably old, like the rest of this devilish group, suggested that there may be more to Blitzen than a common ruffian. Perhaps. He thought back to the violence he had observed on the ship, the hatred of humanity expressed by both cohorts, vampire and were.

I have seen nothing to suggest that these were value human life any more than the vampires. They perceive themselves like Gods. Blitzen accepted her arrangement, nodding to Asa in a peculiar way, setting the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Just bursting at the seams with honor. Oh, Asa read a deep irony in that comment, his eyesight blurry with opiate haze – and the hallucinations began again.

In Christa’s place stood the dead Templar, and in front of the Templar the little girl. Amenset. The Templar put his hands on her shoulder, as she pulled out a piece of parchment and began to read. This time Asa could understand her, this time she spoke in English. And her words ran down his spine like molten lead, and his eyes began to bleed.

“The supernaturals and their devilish species have displayed themselves in the true color of their class as the profound enemies of the human race. In the name of God, their outrages must be suppressed.”

Amenset leveled a pistol at Asa and pulled the trigger. Pain exploded in his head, a pain every bit as brutal as what he had experienced during his final days as a cancer patient. Unable to articulate his agony, he dropped to the ground, burying his head in his hands.

Around him, he could hear Blitzen apparently intent on making good. A blade sliced into flesh – a familiar sound to the doctor -- sanctifying the oath with blood. As the tang of were-blood filled the air, the heady aroma soothed the plangent pounding in his head, and the vampire looked up. Asa salivated, despite having glutted himself on the corpses surrounding them. That blood—he knew it---that were blood was morphine sine qua non. If only he could sink his teeth into that arm and –

Jackal! screamed Amenset in his mind. Murderous doctor! Confess! Confess!

“Wait!” Asa shouted. “This is not right. I did it. I, Asa Danforth. I perpetrated this! Yes!” He gazed at Christa, and then at Blitzen’s back, eyes wide. “It was an opiate haze. I do not remember much, other than an all-consuming hunger, an unnatural strength. And blood! So much blood, running from my mouth, my hands, rolling down my shirt! An orgy of murder. Yes. I did this, not that shifty were! You!”

Asa pointed at Blitzen, who had turned at the sound of his crazed voice, and laughed in despair. “I’ve no doubt you’ve done things to deserve that bullet – Absalom,”he echoed, the word absalom ringing into the cold air with self-loathing. “But not this heinous act. You—this time, you are the innocent. I will not have you slain by Joab for a crime you did not commit.”

He pushed himself to his feet, wishing that he had his obsidian blade back from Careus, so that he could throw it in the air, perhaps catching it, blade first, in the palm of his hand. Pain for pain, blood for blood! Lacking the precious instrument, he instead threw his palms forward, to show that he was unarmed, in a gesture of surrender to fate. “Go on, Bar-bear-ah,” he said scathingly to Christa the Christian, labeling her a barbarian. “Do what you will, now that you cannot avoid the truth.”

[Phoenix Skyy]

She didn’t pay much mind to the odd pair after she and Ambrose proceeded away from the beach. He made some side comment about the bruise, and she simply flashed him a caring smile. If nothing else, aside from watching like a student Ambrose fight in a real fight, she decided that getting to know him further would be rather beneficial. After the all too short touch of his skin while her hand grazed his forehead moments ago something still pulsed just under the surface of her fingertips. Maeve couldn’t deny during the weeks of training under him she’d admire his shirtless figure after a rough training match, dripping with sweat, glistening over the bare skin of his chest. A couple of times she bit her lip hard enough till it bled, doing her best not to imagine more than just the shirt off, and sure enough he noticed, but she blamed it on chapped lips. This time around, touching him very slightly, the feeling was different.

A knowing smile pulled at the corners of her lips, and she bit at her lip, considering the loss of the sensation. “I get the feeling we are going to get to know each other very well. Anyway, you should take the opportunity to get something to eat now. I know tuna can be quite delicious, but you should try something else for a change. We can talk of our pasts at a later time. She fluttered her fingers at him in a wave good-bye as she began to turn away. Steadily she let the words roll off her tongue, "Ciao guapo.”


As she approached the camp again, making her way after departing from Ambrose’s side, she could feel a pair of eyes land on her before gently- how quite unlike them- sweeping away again elsewhere. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she looked to Mercia, a vision while eating fruit, but even her eyes told more than the beauty of the small woman. She was dangerous, she was not to be toyed with, she was not one to piss off. Maeve was all too aware of what the queen was capable of and she was not about to tempt fate by approaching the queen just yet. No. She’d let her eat in peace for now, she looked ravenous. Ravenous, quite the word to describe Maeve at that time too. Her stomach growled fiercely and she realized she only had a single piece of fruit since ordering the camp into shape. That had been some time ago and the fruit didn’t keep her satisfied for very long. It only postponed the inevitable for a short period of time before a more desperate hunger tugged at her insides. However, she still had work to do.

Maeve circled the encampment again. She settled a scuffle between a few gambling werebeasts, apparently one had cheated. He reminded her of Blitzen off the back, similar eyes and hair or something. Regardless of what it was, she pulled the knife from his boot and pointed it at his throat. “This nonsense would not be tolerated by Noora, certainly not Mercia. You can sure as hell not expect it to be tolerated by me. Pay up or get the ******** out.” With some hesitation he finally paid up, and she slammed the knife into the table with such force it startled the other players. She eyed them as if to present a challenge, and while they didn’t stand against her, it was clear in their eyes they didn’t stand with her either. She let a sharp breath out of her nose, glaring them down, before walking hastily away. As if they could rile her up enough to make her lose her calm. She had survived this long because she had fought for all her years of life, she earned her survival. She hadn't wasted her time losing her temper to the first wretch that came her way. If she wasn’t worthy of her life, she would've died. If she wasn't worthy Noora and Mercia wouldn't have made her lieutenant, they would've taken other steps. Ambrose wouldn’t have seen it fit to push her in training. She was stronger than she was before, internally and externally. But was that enough?

Ignoring the self-conscious thoughts and self-doubt pushing the corners of her forcefully made locked-box of a mind, Maeve continued to call out orders to make sure the beasts stayed in order. At least the monkey wannabe was out of the trees; Maeve hoped he had fallen and broke his neck. One less idiot in the ranks. Sure, a thought slipped here and there, yet it didn’t deter her away from doing what she had to do. But then it came. A shiver up the spine raising the hair on her neck, a twist in her stomach. What the hell was that? She cautiously looked over her shoulder, but no of consequence appeared in her line of sight.

…or was there?

No one she recognized, at least. Tall, dark, fairly handsome. He reminded her of someone as he kept on his way, ignoring her. There was something about his demeanor, something about the aura surrounding him. She turned on her heal as just watched him, he was quickly stopped by Julienne. For once the hateful glare wasn’t on her, and Maeve was partially thankful for the moment, until the look crawled across her for a breif moment. But they were distant and looking through her, but still the red hot boiling hatred was there. Rolling her eyes Maeve turned away, if Julienne saw her she would be undesired even though she was a good distance away. Besides she had more important things to…

“…overheard everything. Kestral’s back.” “Are you sure?” Maeve’s attentions turned to the beasts talking as she made her way back to the fire. Everyone had begun whispering about the former king’s return and she had her doubts. Wait a minute… that man back there, the way he moved, the vanity radiating and spilling out of his pores. There was no way in hell he could be back. The man was dead, she could feel it when Mercia’s call rang out across hundreds of miles through the very cores of their kind, including herself, that she mourned his death, mourned the death of her nemesis. And yet… the whispers still came, they all said the same thing: Kestral Paradin was back. There was only one way to be sure.

Jumping high into the air Maeve transformed into her Raven form. She had no time to waste and she wasn’t about to start running across the camp to the one person who could answer her. Now the question was, would she even answer? Maeve hoped that she would. There were enough secrets filtering between Noora and Mercia as it was, and she would never question them about any of it, but this was one subject she wasn’t about to let walk away from her without even a second glance. As she reached the circle of the fire she transformed back into herself, Mercia was a few feet away. She was eating in silence, watching over her people. Maeve’s stomach growled at the sight of food. Figuring to hell with it, she moved towards the gathering around a spit where wild boar roasting, and they cut her some slices. She moved sit beside the Were Queen, who looked at her before returning her attentions elsewhere. Taking it as a good sign, Maeve ate quietly and watched the group of warrior beasts move around the camp. Eating as quietly as her sovereign, she grew steadily anxious about asking the small woman who could possibly kill her for asking the wrong thing. She considered her words carefully between bites of boar and letting her eyes drift across the crowd. Of course Noora was nearby, never far from Mercia, but it didn’t matter much to Maeve what bad turn it could take with Noora. Her concern was with Mercia, as close as she could get to the direct source.

“May I ask whether some rumors I heard were true?” she asked suddenly, tired of eating and not speaking. Mercia raised her eyebrow at her. “Continue.” Her heart pounding, Maeve did as she was requested. “I heard Kestral Paradin is back, and I think I saw said gentleman. I’m thinking I could’ve been wrong, however.” Hoping more like it, she thought. Mercia turned her attentions to Maeve and very gently began to tell her the truth. She listened intently, and was careful not to twitch when she was told Kestral was back. Instead she blinked a couple of times, forcing back her annoyance, and tried to force back a growl that managed to escape. Mercia gave a small grin to Maeve’s response, but continued on. She made a few comments at Kestral expense which made Maeve return the grin. "Kestrel Paradin is back, this is true. The rest...I will inform you when it is appropriate to do so. We are in stasis for the moment. Eat and train. We will no doubt be leaving soon." Mercia was making her intent clear: Maeve didn’t need to know the rest. Not yet.

Nodding, she stood up, and took a mango in one hand. “Of course. I await the time you call on me,” she said softly as she gave the queen a short smile. She left Mercia to have her space. She was done taking the queen’s time when Mercia could’ve used it for some down time or for planning. She had just said that they would be leaving soon. She walked up to Noora, her eyes resting on the redhead for a moment before turning back to the mango. “I have to admit my disappointment that Paradin is back. His sister is doing a much better job than he ever did.” She crushed the mango in her hand and watched the juice spill down her hand. Her face was blank, but behind the emerald eyes she was not a happy camper. Taking a bite from the crushed mango, she heaved a sigh before looking into the redhead’s steady amber and moss colored gaze. “Is there anything you require of me? If not I think I’m going to have a nice sit by the fire before retiring if you allow it.”

[Phoelidae]

Kestrel was arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that he was surrounded by enemies, and he had had plenty of time to consider his options and weigh risks as he raced across Europe to meet the Jackal here, on this Spanish beach. True, at the time of his death Mercia had not been surrounded by quite so many staunch supporters as she seemed now to have acquired, but that made little difference in the long run. It made the gamble one of higher stakes, perhaps, but it did not change the odds. Nor was he surprised to see that his sister welcomed his return with lethal hostility, though he was slightly taken aback to see how well she seemed to have adjusted to his throne. The one genuinely surprising thing was the loathing in Julienne Rothschild’s eyes – he’d always rather liked the woman (as much as he liked anyone, that is) and wasn’t at all sure what he’d done to earn her animosity.

Flippant as he seemed, striding across the beach like a peacock, the vampire was studying the face of every enemy standing there in the sand as the full moon overhead bore witness. Mercia, her blood-dark eyes infuriatingly indifferent to his return; Ataraxia, face full of loathing and the singular distress of a creature whose world of absolutes has been turned on its head; Julienne, her eyes frigid with betrayal and contempt, fingers tight on the barrel of her gun; and the new beast general, a woman he’d not encountered before, who he would come to know as Noora, body taut and protective beside her queen as she fought not to give away too much in her expression. They all wanted him dead, every last one of them. Even Mercia, he realized somewhat wearily. He was back from the dead and blackmailing his way into her presence – how much more obvious could he make his intentions? But then again, maybe she just didn’t care.

But it was Julienne who challenged him first. He turned to look at her as she stepped forward, her ice blue eyes meeting his new, acid green. He face was closed and cold, and he realized, with a certain measure of surprise, that she was afraid. Of what exactly he couldn’t tell, if it was him or herself or something else entirely, but it was there, in the hard line of her slender shoulders and the white-knuckled grip on her gun. Still, she tried to seem casual as she asked him for collateral on this “bargain.” Kestrel raised a dark brow, his smile condescending. They didn’t understand, did they? This was no negotiation. He had all the cards, and so the terms were his to dictate. He need not offer any collateral, no assurance of his good faith, for they had no choice but to trust that he would honor the agreement. And why wouldn’t he? He’d nothing to lose from telling them what he knew, but everything to gain.

He was about to open his mouth to say as much when the other general interrupted. Kestrel did not recognize her, and he did not know how she’s risen so swiftly to be Mercia’s general and right hand, but it was obvious that she was devoted wholly and utterly to her queen, and would gladly die for her. Which was … irritating, for the leech had rather appreciated the former general’s ineptitude allowing him such unfettered access to the Jackal. Now it was obvious that this new woman would sooner cut off her own hand than let him get anywhere near her sovereign. Of course, devotion was one thing, intelligence another, and it was obvious to Kestrel that while the woman had the one in spades, she was utterly lacking in the other.

Kestrel threw his head back and laughed at his words, a laugh that was sharp and dark as an obsidian blade. ”My good woman,” he sneered, his eyes still full of dark mirth at her assertion that there was more to life and war than his selfish impulses, ” No there isn’t. There is nothing more than what each of us wants and can get! Of course this is a game! Life is a game, or I would be dead and rotting instead of standing before you! You suggest I should reevaluate my priorities?”He stepped closer, watching her tense up just a little more. She was a tall woman, athletically built, and she carried herself like a capable fighter. Pity she did not know how to choose her battles more wisely. To question and challenge him was one thing – to insult and blatantly belittle him as she had was another. His smile promised that she had just made herself a very dangerous enemy, and Kestrel was not a man to make idle threats.

”And tell me, beast, what is it that you live for? You live for the war, you live to serve, and yet you serve and fight so that you may continue to live. Where, pray tell, is the meaning in that? I stand before you as proof that death is a joke – how then could life not be? No one ever gives us what we want out of life – “ his gaze flicked from Noora to Mercia, knowing that devotion like what the general showed her queen always came with a desire of one form or another, and also knowing that the Jackal was not a queen to understand her soldiers well enough to reward them – ”so the only way we get it is by taking it. Think on it, beast. If you lived for yourself, you could try to kill me here and now, as I know you so wish to do. But you won’t, you can’t, because you think an endless, futile war is more important. Instead you let me puppet you, coerce you, blackmail you, and at the end of the day I haven’t even promised you an end to the war, just a fighting chance in one battle, while I get everything I want. And you think, in the end, whatever use I am will not outweigh the danger I am. But still you must let me live. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Now you tell me whose priorities need rearranging.” He smiled at her then, a cruel smile that said he hoped the words would rot her from the inside out like a poison. Warriors like Noora, like his twin, perhaps even like Julienne, they needed their illusions of meaning, their dutiful castles in the sky, and when those were taken from them, they seldom survived. Not like the Midnight Jackal. She was like him, whether she would see it or not – they both fought this war for blood and glory and the sweet taste of victory, because there was nothing else for gods to do but wage meaningless, eternal wars to busy an immortal life. Mercia Addison might still convince herself that she waged a holy crusade, but one had only to watch her empty eyes come alive in battle to know that she warred for war’s own sake.

He turned again at the sound of his sister’s voice, his sister who had won a reprieve from death thanks only to Julienne’s timely intervention. And it was only a reprieve, for he would not forgive her killing him. She looked much as she always had, sharp-featured, a touch androgynous, coolly contemplative, though the centuries had lent a bitter twist to her lips that he did not remember from their youth. She had always been the clever, bookish one who kept to herself, while he had been the manipulator, the flashy one, the boy who always had one plan or another. And oh how he had hated her when the pale man with the quick, dark eyes had chosen her, boring, guileless, head-in-the-clouds Raxi, and left him to rot in that ramshackle orphanage. Of course, all of the was ancient history now, centuries behind them both, but it had been the last time they’d seen each other until she decided to appear from nowhere and so rudely remove his head. It made it somewhat surreal to see her now, a vampire he did not know, yet still with traces of the girl with whom he’d shared a womb. Strange indeed.

But Ataraxia’s answer surprised him. Perhaps she was more flexible than he had given her credit for, which would make her all the more dangerous. Instead of refusing him outright, she exploited the hostility of the other woman to give him concessions only on her terms. Clever. Kestrel’s smile said, “I have what I want for now, but I will not forget this, and you will dearly for it.” The agreement was forged, the situation defused, and finally Mercia spoke, but only to scoff at both twins as she turned away, beckoning for her general to follow her like a puppy. Kestrel watched her go until she disappeared in the shadow of the jungle, his blood simmering with rage. So that was it, then. He escaped the clutches of death itself, returned to her with the single-minded determination of obsession, and that was all the reaction he got from the Midnight Jackal. She’d not actually even said a word to him, not his name, not a greeting, not even a curse. Yes, he’d gotten a taste of her blood and body, but even that did not stir a reaction from Mercia’s lips. And now she ignored him in favor of filling her belly.

Kestrel turned away and took a breath, knowing he was a fool to have expected anything different, and not even sure what he had been hoping for. He shook his head, realizing that he was suddenly alone on the beach, just as he had been before, Julienne apparently having followed Ataraxia into the darkness. Alone in darkness, yet again. He had hoped his reception would not be quite so one-sided … but no matter. He would find other vampires, and Christa, and there he would find his new following. Whatever Ataraxia might have in cleverness, he more than made up for in charisma and sheer confidence.

He stalked through the trees, following the distant sounds of voices, and paused in the shadows as he surveyed the camp. Two camps, really, one of weres, one of vampires, each gathered loosely around their own roaring bonfire. The ship was moored in the Spanish waters nearby, looking in rather poor repair after the long journey. There, he spotted the golden glint of Mercia’s hair, where she was seated by the fire eating, surrounded by more weres than even Kestrel dared antagonize on his first night back. His eyes drifted to the vampire camp, seeking Christa’s slight frame, or any others he remembered – assuming, of course, that his twin had not purged all of his firmer supporters from the ranks. Failing to find her, and realizing that it was unlikely she’d survived the change of regime, the former king resigned himself to the fact that he would probably have to do without his old general. Pity.

It was then his eyes found the new general, standing just outside the circle of light thrown by the fire. Julienne had her hands on her hips, and a distant look on her face, her posture a mark less guarded than it had been on the beach. He approached on cat-silent feet, studying her as he did. She was one of those rare people born to be a vampire, so she looked much as she had that first time he’d seen her on an icy street in New Londontown. She’d had a steel heart even then, this pragmatic, unlikely gunsmith – he had only to replace it with one that would not eventually fail her.

He stopped a few paces away so as not to startle her overmuch (lest she put another bullet in him), and leaned idly against a tree, arms crossed over his still-bare chest. ”You’ve done well for yourself, I see. I always knew you would.”

She whirled, drawing her gun with impressive speed, but Kestrel had expected the reaction and did not flinch. ”Easy now, little Julie.” She had never appreciated the shortening of her name, which had only encouraged his use of it. ”I only want to catch up with an old protégé. I trust you fared well on your mission to the continent?”

He tilted his head at her sharp answer, considering her carefully. ”I appreciate the necessity of seeming to resent me in front of my dear sister, but I do not think it was only for appearance’s sake. Which make me wonder how I wronged you. I sent you to the continent because you were eminently capable, a fact you seemed to understand and appreciate at the time. Yet I return, and find you serving my murderer just as gladly. Practical you may be, but I never took you for one to change sides so easily.” he was missing something here, and that would not do. By rights Julienne ought to be his piece on this board – he had found her, taught her, made her (or at least put the metal heart in her chest, another vampire had supplied the blood), and he had thought he had her respect. But now she served Ataraxia, and seemed only too eager to see him burn. And if she was general (and he had no doubt she was a very capable one), it would not do for her to be so thoroughly his sister’s creature.

His green eyes fell to her fingers, clutching her gun like a shield against him. Kestrel moved a little closer, dark clothes and black hair making him seem like part of the shadows. ”It must be a thankless job, serving my sister. Though not much more thankless than it was to serve me, I suppose.” He studied her face, watching her reactions, trying to find the weak points to play upon. ”I regret that I did not get to welcome you back from your mission. It was not exactly my plan to … take my leave.” He smiled then, as though he shared a secret joke with her, though she seemed far from amused. ”I do not know what you want, Julienne Rothschild, but I do know that you are far too dangerous a vampire to want as my enemy. I counted you a friend once,” (as much as he could use the word to describe anyone) ”and I would again. I do not ask that you foreswear whatever oaths I am sure my sister made you give to her, only that you allow me the opportunity to correct whatever wrong I unwittingly dealt you.” He smiled, a slight, almost genuine smile, without the usual flash of fangs. A smile that was actually a bit rueful. If he’d found only one virtue in death, it was a slightly greater capacity to laugh at himself in addition to the rest of the world. And if most of what he remembered of Julienne still held true, a little bit of honesty and sentiment went a good deal farther than power and showmanship. And he had liked and respected her, much more than most of his other vampires. He chuckled. ”You were almost a daughter to me once, though I admit to being an exceptionally poor father-figure.”

[Blitzkrieg_Baron]

The flames hurt her eyes, so she hung back, just outside the fire’s light. The sparks reminded her too much of the Jackal’s eyes: golden, burning and utterly indiscriminate, scorching everything they touched.
In the dark, she didn’t see him coming.
”You’ve done well for yourself, I see. I always knew you would.”

Her gun flew up in an instant, a snarl twisting her lips. “Easy now, little Julie” b*****d. He knew she hated that. Some things, it seemed, never changed. And he was shirtless, still. No. He may have won a new face, but some things were still exactly the same. “I only want to catch up with an old protégé. I trust you fared well on your mission to the continent?”
“Well enough” she murmured, tucking her pistol away at her hip once more. “A great many promises. Far less in the way of men.” Perhaps you know why that might be? she ventured drily, eyebrows raised.

”I appreciate the necessity of seeming to resent me in front of my dear sister, but I do not think it was only for appearance’s sake. Which make me wonder how I wronged you. I sent you to the continent because you were eminently capable, a fact you seemed to understand and appreciate at the time. Yet I return, and find you serving my murderer just as gladly. Practical you may be, but I never took you for one to change sides so easily.. ”It must be a thankless job, serving my sister. Though not much more thankless than it was to serve me, I suppose.”

Julienne looked away, unwilling or unable to meet his eyes. She laughed. “The day I am thanked for the things that I do, I may die all over again of the shock.” The flames had shifted, and the light painted the line of her throat with a bloody glow. The crackle of the fire mingles with the sound of Kestrel’s voice, and it seemed very familiar somehow, and she should feel her shoulders draw tight and tense. Kestrel was still speaking.

“I regret that I did not get to welcome you back from your mission. It was not exactly my plan to … take my leave. I do not know what you want, Julienne Rothschild, but I do know that you are far too dangerous a vampire to want as my enemy. I counted you a friend once, and I would again. I do not ask that you foreswear whatever oaths I am sure my sister made you give to her, only that you allow me the opportunity to correct whatever wrong I unwittingly dealt you. You were almost a daughter to me once, though I admit to being an exceptionally poor father-figure.” She almost drew her gun again, fingers wrapping desperately around the grip, worn smooth by years and years under her hand…

But he was right, and that was the awful truth of it. He made her, and for the time being, she was not Julienne the Ironborn, Julienne the General, she was only Julie, little Julie who died and came back because of a red-headed man, who had a new face now, but was still the same. She tensed as if bracing herself against a blow.
Then Julienne sagged, head bowing as the tensions bled out of her, replaced with something rueful and tired. She kept her face turned from him, a final play for dignity.

“You’re right.” She said. Julienne smirked wryly. “I have been harsher, perhaps, than I should have been. But Kestrel,” and her eyes as she met his gaze were filled with bone-deep weariness. It lasted for all of a second before Julienne close in on herself, retreating within cool politeness like polished steel. “I am tired.” She drawled. “Understand, you died. You left us, and it nearly killed us all." A thread of anger had crept into her voice, something rigid and cold. “You didn’t see it. We were being slaughteredand no one had any idea what to do without you, you left no one behind to take your place. Your sister…”

Julienne shook her head. “We needed order. And she gave us that much. We were dying, Kestrel. But we survived, despite all that, and we have been holding together.” Abruptly, she turned and wheeled on Kestrel, with a bitter, scornful sigh. “And now you’re back, and nobody knows who to trust anymore, or who to follow. Should they listen to you, or your sister, God forbid that they should look to me…. Your being here threatens everything. The Were are only our allies so long as the Templars are still a threat; between the beasts and the priests, I am already fighting war on two fronts.” Julienne raked hand through her hair. “Now you’re back, and I cannot help but think that any moment now, we’re going to start fighting each other. I cannot fight a war on three fronts, Kestrel. It’s too much, even for me.”

Julienne paced away from Kestrel, and made a great show of dismantling her pistol and minutely inspecting each part. “I am afraid. I am afraid that a woman who has been killing for centuries is not only camped close enough to gut us all in our beds, but that she has become so important that she is worth the command of an army. That she is so important, it convinced you, of all people, to agree to share power. Forgive me, but that isn’t what I remember of you. Nor does seem very like your sister, from I know of her, and it frightens me.” Julienne broke off, biting at her lip. It frightened her, yes, but it also angered. It burned. “You know there are no depths to which I will not sink if I must, but I will not do it for her. I am not going to die for Mercia the Jackal.”

Snap, Snap, Snap and the gun was back together again. Julienne thrust it back into its holster and walked deliberately to stand in front of Kestrel, chin up, hands clasped behind her back. “It was easier to serve your sister if I hated you. It was cleaner. By anyone’s count, I am an old woman now, and I did not want to die with conflicted loyalties. All children come to hate their parents at least once. You want to fix what you’ve done?” she inquired. “Don’t let her break us, Kestrel. Do not make this about you and your sister fighting for her attention. Tell me you know what to do to burn every Templar altar to the ground, and help us do it.”
Then she nodded, a general again.
“Sir.”

[Phoelidae]

Ataraxia’s eyes were restless and uneasy as she slipped silently through the jungle, toward the opposite shore of the small isle. Bright moonlight made the rich foliage an eerily stunning tableau of shifting shadows, absolute black and startling white and every sinuous shade of gray in between. Without the sun, it was hard to ever see anything for its true color. Moonlight bleached or silvered everything with its ice-blue glow, and the light of lanterns or fires was always shifting orange and red and yellow and playing tricks on the eye. She’d been born before time stood still, and though she could no longer remember how vivid the world had been then, she still remembered the intense sadness she’d felt when the world stopped spinning and she realized all those bright colors were gone forever, her favorite among them. Now she couldn’t remember what it had been, much less what it had looked like.

But the splashes of icy light and inky shadow all around did not hold her attention now. Her mind was back on the beach, with her brother and the Jackal and her lapdog and Julienne. Why was there so little sense left in the world? There’d been order and answers once, hadn’t there? Had things made sense before time stopped? Before she was left an orphan with her hateful twin? Before Nihilo had come and shaped her into a killing machine? But if there had been answers, they were long gone now. Nothing made sense to anyone, it seemed. Kestrel lived for his whims. Julienne lived for duty. Noora lived for Mercia. Mercia lived for blood. Of them all, the Midnight Jackal seemed to have the fewest doubts. Hers was a simple existence, driven wholly and completely by blood, war, and vengeance. Ataraxia wondered how it could be so straightforward for her. Perhaps the answer was simply that Mercia had a heart as insensate as the Red Death’s body. Ataraxia had to envy her that. She’d much rather have a numbness of the soul than the body, for all of her noble ideals brought her nothing but grief and agony. She seemed to have gotten all of the moral introspection that her brother lacked, for his existence was nearly as straightforward as the Jackal’s, only his aims alternated between blood lust, carnal lust, and vain pride. In many ways, he and the Jackal seemed two sides of the same horribly bloody coin. Neither questioned, neither would ever be satisfied, and both would destroy anything that stood in their way – including each other.

And where did that leave Ataraxia? She could hardly say that she still fought for vengeance when she had just relinquished her claim to her brother’s head. To some degree she fought for her vampires, though why she could not exactly say. She was still obsessed with the Jackal, fascinated by her, and yet her drive to kill her seemed to have subsided, replaced by the snarled and complicated impulse to touch her and feel, to taste her blood and her body and partake in a little of that mad, blood-drenched, perverse peace that came of the Jackal’s unfailing certainty in the righteousness of her war. Perhaps that was what Ataraxia fought for – certainty. In something, anything. She wanted a world where things were as they appeared to be, where death was absolute and, even if there could not be plain good and evil, it was at least clear-cut who was an enemy and who an ally. But there was no such world, as Kestrel had proven. But she’d known that before, hadn’t she? You’d think she would have learned after all these hundreds of years, that she would stop being so bloody naïve, but it never quite seemed to sink in all the way. Kestrel was right. The world was naught but one long joke. ”God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh …” she remembered bitterly, as she shed her long coat on the beach and slipped into the water. It was probably freezing cold, not having been warmed by sunlight in centuries, but she felt nothing, her lithe body slipping through the water like some dark fish, like the shark were with the hungry eyes. They were gods, all of them, but truly they were only playing cosmic jokes among themselves, like the pagan gods of old, eternally at war – because what else was there for immortal, endlessly powerful beings? They had no purpose in the world, so they created their own.

It was a long swim to the mainland, but she did not care. It was not as though there was anywhere else she needed to be. Her vampires followed her because she was a strong leader, and if she had the same Machiavellian streak as her brother, she practiced it more subtly, and not so arbitrarily. But they did not love her, and they would not die for her. Oh, Julienne might, but she would die for most anything, so long as she was certain she was dying for something. The Jackal would likely never even notice she was gone, which somehow made her angry enough to grit her fangs. She might as well just go to the Spanish mainland and start out across the continent, and never look back. No one would care, save perhaps for her brother, who would be angry with the loss of his chance for vengeance. But then what? Wander the world until she rotted away into dust? There was no purpose or reason in this world, and she would find no more in the middle of the barren Russian wastes than here in the endless dance of war. At least here she could lose herself for brief moments in the sweet singing of her wires and the ruby rivers of blood … and there was always the chance of a drop of the Jackal’s blood to give her a taste of sensation. No, she would go back, if only because there was no place else to go.

When she finally reached the mainland, she pulled herself from the water and sat a moment on the pier there, shaking glittering beads of salt water from her dark hair and then raking the short strands back from her face. Wet, her distinctive hair had the menacingly black cast of dark garnets instead of brilliant ruby. There were many, she knew, who assumed that her epithet was born of the striking and almost unnatural color of her hair. They were half right … but they had never seen her kill, and so missed the more important reason. Nihilo had said once that her kills were uniquely beautiful – for her wires left so little carnage and so much blood that the corpses she left looked more like sleeping members of some distant land with blood-red skin than the butchered sacks of meat that they were. Her weapon of choice cut to the bone, and it could open every major artery and then some in the same instant, yet it left almost no marks unless she chose to. That was why they called her the Red Death.

She reached out and found Christa’s mind, and another vampire besides, who she little recognized, though the taste of their thoughts was not entirely foreign. They were not far, a handful of blocks, perhaps, and she would take at least some small enjoyment in finding an excuse to execute that sniveling priest, to keep Kestrel friendless. Ataraxia rose, her skin ghostly white in the moonlight, her body almost invisible in the shadows, clad all in black – shirt, trousers, and boots clinging damply to her skin in a way that made her less likely to be mistaken for her twin brother. Nonetheless, those humans who dared the streets flickered away quickly at the sight of her tall frame. Her long fingers in their black gloves flexed in anticipation as she followed the scent of blood.

She heard them before she saw them, the distinctively self-important tone Christa took when she did not think her life was in danger, and two other voices, both male, not especially recognizable. Curious as to what was happening, she vaulted silently up onto a roof, then leapt across to another, silent as shadow when she peered over the side at the scene unfolding below. Sure enough, there was Christa, and the albino she’d set to tend the human fodder that fed them on the voyage, and a third man, a were most likely from the way he stood apart and laughed at Christa. She did not recognize the beast, but she knew his sort – not unlike Kestrel, he had the greedy eyes and sly smile of a man who served no master but his own whim. Dangerous only to the creature who expected anything but deceit from him. The priest was accusing him of massacring the dozen dead in the street, and bargaining a favor for her silence – though Ataraxia doubted that this sort of beast would care what the Jackal thought he’d done, unless it was likely to cost him his life. Christa was trying to make them both her creatures, in however small a way. These are the lowest dregs of both sides, the Red Death thought scornfully, and even they she must blackmail into obedience. Even as she watched, the albino collapsed in the street, stricken by some unknown ailment, while the beast played Christa for a fool.

Then all at once, the mad white man was spewing biblical nonsense as he confessed to the slaughter himself. Ataraxia raised a brow, even as Christa stopped and stared. The albino vampire was plainly unhinged, and somehow the Red Death did not find it so unthinkable that he should be capable of such a berserker slaughter as this. After all, hadn’t she noted him doing much the same at that first battle with the Templars? Young, she thought to herself. Young, and still too much humanity in him. But madness, too, and I could well have use of a rabid dog, well-trained. But the fool was flinging his arms out and begging for his punishment, and Christa was raising her gun, which would not do.

Moonlight flashed in a swift silver line, the source of it invisible to the eye. Then again, and again, arcs of light so swift as to seem a hallucination, and then all at once Christa was bleeding, her eyes rolling back in her head as blood poured from her seemingly intact throat, more blood spreading out from beneath her clothes, chest, arms, legs, wrists and thighs, her body awash in blood. It must have been cold out, for her blood steamed as it met the night air, and then the priest buckled, collapsing onto her back in the street as she bled out with incredible speed, more blood sputtering on her lips. It was a perfect display of her killing prowess, Ataraxia thought ruefully as she dropped out of the shadows – a pity it was wasted on such a worthless vermin. ”By all rights you ought to have died long ago, Christa Moriah,” she said softly, striding forward to stand over the twitching, bleeding body. ” You never were a true vampire, and your cowardice disgraced us all. Now, for the crime of overstepping your station and daring to execute a fellow vampire without my leave, and for consorting with a beast to conceal the truth from your leaders, I condemn you of treason and sentence you to die.” Her wires coiled back into the tips of her gloves, custom-made with a parchment-thin mechanism of gears and machinery to retract and extend the wires as she wished. From a nearby corpse she lifted a long dagger and then crouched over the limp form of the priest, who reeked of fear, her eyes rolling like the dying animal that she was. Somehow she found the strength for a blood-garbled scream when Ataraxia crushed her ribs and plunged the dagger into her chest, slicing flesh and muscle until she drew from the priest’s chest a deceptively delicate contraption of slightly rusted metal, still ticking frantically. It crushed under the heel of her boot with a satisfying crunch as the more delicate pieces were snapped and ruined, and the ticking stopped.

She scooped the bloody, broken mechanism off the cobbles and looked at it for a moment. Then she lifted the priest’s monocle from her pocket, and approached the greedy were. Ataraxia gave him a cutting look and held his eyes for an instant, her violet irises eerily pale in the light of the empty opium den. Then she handed him the heart and the monocle, and a golden coin from her pocket. ”See that these are delivered to the Jackal. And tell her that the enemy of her enemy, while still her enemy, can be a useful one.” She had no patience for this man or whatever tricks he might like to play, so she flashed her fangs at him and gave him her coldest stare. ”I have paid you for it, so I expect you to do it. I am not the fool the priest was, and a cunning man with a taste for life will know better than to cross me. Get out of my sight, beast.” It could not hurt to reach out to the Jackal. She had no idea what Mercia thought of her twin, but surely she had more cause to hate the leech king than the leech queen … and Ataraxia wanted her twin dead even more than she wanted to kill the Jackal.

The Red Death turned then, looking down at a slight, pale young man painted all in red and white, his eyes matching the blood that soaked his clothing, his hair as sickly sallow as his skin. A creature who had surely been deemed monstrous even before he was turned. The black of his pupils nearly swallowed up his wide eyes as he stared at her, and he smelled like fear and blood and shame. Her face was still and cold as marble as she studied him. Technically he had committed a crime, had gone against all of her edicts about killing discreetly, and put them in danger of being discovered by the Templars. But as her violet eyes moved over him, drenched in blood, and the bodies littered around him, she decided there was a more useful course here. She fingered one black leather glove, checking that the concealed latches were all in order, her wires properly spooled beneath the supple leather.

”Asa Danforth, was your name? I remember you, a doctor. But you have killed like a berserker before, have you not?” She tilted her head to one side, her eyes as unreadable as her smooth face as she studied him. ”Yet you stink of shame, take responsibility from one you gained naught by protecting, plainly regret and dismay in what you have done. You do all of this because you have done wrong, by those more powerful than yourself, by your general, by your queen, by your God, and wish to make amends for it, is that not right?”

She took two long strides and was standing before him, taller than he, looking down into his face with flashing violet eyes, her damp hair wild around her face. ”You are an abomination among men, monsters, and gods alike, Asa Danforth …” she whispered, her voice an insidious hiss, ”but only because you allow yourself to be.” She held his eyes, willing him to hear her words and be consumed by them, that she may capture this lost man and chain him to her own will. ”You have fallen into the trap of all pious men, so self-satisified and certain in your moral superiority that you are blind to God’s plan where you think you know better. Are we all not made according to God’s designs?” Once, she would have believed what she said, when she was very young. Then, later, she would have thought it all tripe and superstition. Now … well, no one could know, what did it matter? ” Beasts are born, not made, and who is to say that we vampires too are not natural in our own way? It was not humans who stopped the moon in the sky, and he who thinks he could is a blasphemous fool. You and I Asa, we are something of the divine – eternal, all-powerful, as only He could make us. And here, tonight, you have demonstrated the true scope of your power.” She gestured at the mess of bodies all around them, corpses growing cold in the darkness. ”Who are you to deny a gift of such power simply because you do not understand it?” Ataraxia’s eyes glowed, her fangs flashing in her pale face as she twisted and pulled and manipulated this man’s soul into the shape that would suit her.

”This is what we are meant for, Asa – it is not our place to question why. And no good will come of denying it – ” she nodded her head toward the carnage around them, ”only uncontrolled slaughter like this. It would not have happened if you had not tried to fight what you are. By resisting your purpose, you pervert it, and allow your power to control you instead of the other way around.” She smiled then, the chill, soulless smile of a predator, an evil thing, or perhaps an avenging angel, a flash of fangs and teeth that never reached her amethyst eyes. ”Accept what you are, and you will be able to control your power. Then you may decide who lives and who dies ... instead of slaughtering whoever is in your way when you can no longer deny your nature.”

[Tummeh Fiend]

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ℐ cy wind suddenly brought the tailor to his senses after the warmth of the belly of the ship, chilling his skin first and then seeping below to the marrow in his bones. His brow twitched and he was aware of his surroundings. Aware of the rough deck he stood on, waterlogged from years on the sea, and beyond was Spain. Ah, the shifting landscape of Spain with its rising cliffs and soft beaches. He remembered picking out bright patterned fabrics that the locals had made and taking them back to his shop. He was aware of the fires starting to build on the beaches, no doubt most of the monsters were starting to make camp, and he was still on the fray. Him and the man who now pressed his cold-like-the-wind hand into his own warm palm. All of the recent past sped through his mind; the blood, the friction, the thrill, the emotion. He hid that emotion deep in his soul, terrified by it. Cherished it. Bernardo cast his dark gaze to the vampire then, realizing that he had been staring across the sea in a trance. He found those light eyes staring back at him, desperate, and then he remembered that Jack had said something. The wheels in his head turned frantically to no avail, until he asked of the man with a reassuring squeeze of his fingers twined in his, "Pardon?"

Blood. Now.
Bernardo could not help but swallow the lump deep in his throat at the notion, but he nodded in understanding and gently pulled his companion close to his body to assist him off the dock and unto the beach. The tailor was pleasantly thrilled at his new strength from assisting with the ship's ropes, glad that he was able to help support some of Jack's weight with no burden to himself. He was not prepared for stepping on solid ground again however, and the shifting of the sand beneath his feet threatened his balance. Looking over to Jack, the look of utter shock, mixed with a kind of annoyance and amusement made him smile in fondness. Somewhere in his memory, he remembered their first conversation, how Jack had mentioned his lack of travel experience. Bernardo opened his mouth to say something on the matter as they left footprints behind them, but he was quickly stopped by the expression on the vampire's face, his eyes focused on a point in front of them. He followed the look of agitation and aggression out across the land where a dark figure walked, smelling of the sea with a smile as white and dangerous as the snow. Ambrose. The tailor tensed at the interaction, not between himself and the other were, although things had never been completely comfortable while they lived together, but he tensed for the clashing of these two adversaries. He did not suppose that the cause of Jack's anger was a product of jealousy. As they advanced upon each other, he took more of the others weight on his own body, ready to hold him back if he could. If it was at all possible.

He found his senses very aware again as they came face to face, much like the night he thought he was going to be killed and had been saved, and much like looking out at Spain, suddenly everything seemed to go into intense detail. He saw the grains of sand on Ambrose's cheek, sticking from the spray of the ocean and the wind sweeping across the ground. He listened to the two converse. "Bernardo was just helping me with the final clearing out." "Cleaning and such. Work for people who are too particular, but it's all finished up now." But they continued to exchange barbs, start fires, while Benardo tried foolishly to put them out. He was aware of Jack tensing at his side, standing more and more on his own, which set the tailor's nerves on end. He was bracing for the scuffle that would ensue. Surely he would be pulled into the commotion, and against Amrbose who's skills he knew all too well, he knew he would lay in a pulp in the sand. His companion was still focused too intently, dangerously. Then a miracle seemed to show itself as the Spaniard dismissed them with a final warning directed at him, "Don't get too attached to their species, Bernardo. Things may be all fun and games right now, but remember who your enemy is. This truce won't last forever, so watch out that some lowlife bloodsucker doesn't stab you in the back." He smiled pathetically and replied, "I know how to keep my company. Most of my life was not spent in war, but in learning which friends to keep business with and which couldn't be trusted. Humans are far less loyal to beasts than beasts are to their own kind. Besides, unless you are a traitor to your allies, remember that I have sought you out as one. However, I am grateful for your concern."

And that would have been that. Bernardo turned to walk around Ambrose with a cordial nod in his direction, and alongside him, he guided Jack. Or, he thought he guided Jack, until the blond lashed out, both in words and in actions. For one moment, the tailor had him restrained and then he was shoved aside to fumble for his footing, finding it just in time to watch the vampire's fist crack against his enemy's bone. Bernardo threw up his hands, sighing in agitation, his head tipped backwards so he could press two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Oh! That's bloody perfect! Because beating each other will definitely prove something." He yelled in defiance before finally pulling back, wary of accidentally getting pulled into their feud. How was he the only creature in this god forsaken group that didn't feel the need to hurt things? If this was about defense, or duty, he could have more easily understood. But this was about something insignificant like honor, or pride. Even as he tried to discredit the fighting, the war, he knew that he also had a good dose of pride running through his own veins. Though he had been more peaceful with his life, he had also been full of prideful bitterness, fostered by his own pity. He had lived for too long with such little purpose, if he could even call the past few decades living, but Jack breathed a life into him. He made him feel things again, he forced him outside the bed he was apathetically smothering himself in with silken sheets and pillows, and maybe someday a fire would burn fiercely enough in his bosom to fight for something. So he simply stood back and was the onlooker to their nonsense. It was then that he noticed the figure of a woman hovering in the distance, another referee, and their eyes locked knowingly before she made her way towards him. He gazed at her, up and down, trying to figure out her game subtly implied by the sly look in her movements. Quietly, she pulled him in with her hushed words, "Come see me later... alone." He nodded in agreement when she reassured him with her smile, and again he stood alone.

The tides of their scuffle changed, and the tailor felt the urge to rush in and pull them apart overcome him, just to be brutally smothered out by reason. There was no way to separate these two men once their blood had boiled. They had seen war and had learned that game all too well, and to try and pull that apart was a dangerous matter. So all he could do was watch, engaged, silently wishing for one of them to back off before there was bloodshed. His request was granted only as Jack lay in the dirt and silt of the ocean, and Ambrose, satisfied, sauntered away. Bernardo guarded his thoughts and emotions carefully so as no one would be able to probe as he tentatively stooped in front of the blond. He held out his hand, his sympathetic expression asking the other to grab it, which seemed to work. The were lifted the man to his feet and allowed him to sling his undamaged arm around his shoulders. Then, the couple was back where they started: walking across the beach alone. They walked until Bernardo found a considerably large boulder to let Jack rest on, where he then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the bruised man. The brunette let his stare rest on the others downcast eyes, not willing to look up for shame and for pride. They stayed this way as the minutes ticked on, Jack cleaning himself off as best as he could, until their eyes were finally able to find each other. He smiled at his companion, sad at first, but the more he realized that he was undamaged, the smiled turned warm. "What am I supposed to do with you? he jested before continuing, "I thought that I was the reckless one. What got into you Jack? I have no right to take away the fight that you need to fight, but why the shark?" He listened for his response, pulling him close to combat his hurt pride. He remembered Jack's request for blood and looked around to see if there was a way to provide this need. Especially after the fight, he could hear the mechanics in his chest beat uncertainly. The area around them was barren and deserted, the only roar coming from the oceans, and faintly from the camps far in the distance. Humans seemed to be in short supply. Bernardo felt panic rising again, knowing his options, and turned to the vampire slowly. He licked his lips, his hands nervous as he pushed his hair back from his face. "Jack. You are very dear to me. I'd rather take your pain than have you bear it." He leveled his eyes until a mutual understanding seeped in.

After a while, they again made their way to the camps. Jack eventually started to walk on his own again, and they reluctantly made their goodbyes before separating, intent on meeting again as soon as time permitted. It was then that the tailor made his way towards the main campfire, the hunger in his stomach a side-thought when he saw Maeve talking with the general. He wondered what she wanted with him. To think that he had anything to offer in this world was almost laughable, and he wasn't sure if her request was something he could even accomplish. Still, he found his way over to an overturned log, sitting down on it to rest his stressed bones, letting the smell of the embers calm him. It felt like there were too many buzzing fibers still waiting for the earth to stop shaking underneath him, sparking the vibration that trembled through his whole body. One of fear and uncertainty, anticipation, and the hot desire that had been foreign to him before his time with Jack. He rubbed his hands together nervously, watching the raven woman to see if she would notice his appearance. His eyes scanned wildly over the congregation, seeing Ambrose a ways off, and then finally settling on Mercia herself. His breath caught for a moment. Over the years, he had forgotten her beauty and it still came as a surprise to him. But mostly, he feared her. He knew that his loyalty could come into question with his absence from the military, and even if it didn't, what use could she find for him? Rumors were known of what she did to those she didn't find useful. He shook in his coat, even beside the fire, yet couldn't keep his gaze from her. All he could hope for was invisibility, though that was unlikely. It was just a matter of time before he would have to come face to face with Mercia, and possibly, his demise.

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[Hamletmaschine]

Her eyes studied the scene, like a play from Shakespeare before her. Rivaled siblings fighting for the throne. Fighting for the chance to slay the Jackal Queen and claim her head as their own.
”No. He holds the cards, and whatever he is, whatever he has become, we do not know enough to risk this fate the Templars might bring down on both out people. Believe me, I hate it more than either of you, but …We have no choice. Besides, the Jackal can handle my brother, of that I have no doubt. But …”
Noora began to slowly accumulate a full sense that this war was really just between the two vampires and Mercia. All of their people merely played this game. She hated to agree with Kestrel, no matter how mild that was, but perhaps there was some truth to his words...
The longer the group bickered, the more irritated she had become. Ataraxia finally laid the final ground, stepping around Kestrel, ”She will be no slave of yours, Kestrel, nor a pet. And I will make sure of it. You will do this on my terms. I could lead the vampires against you, and they would fight, for they respect me as they never did you – and Jokelainen over there would gladly find a few weres I’m sure to help me destroy you as I am only too eager to do." Noora snorted softly as a twinge at the corner of her lips perked up one side. "We do not know if you are as valuable as you say you are, but it is too dangerous to risk. Unless, of course, you prove yourself to be too much a threat to be worth it. You serve me, Kestrel. You serve me, and you answer to me. King you may have been, and you may have information we need, but I am Queen by my own right.”
Finally, she came to address Mercia and herself. Noora was just as stern and stiff as she had been since this all began, as the vampiress approached. However, here in this moment, there was a stronger sense of admiration towards this woman. Despite almost losing her head to her resurrected demon brother, Ataraxia shrugged it off easily enough to prove the top dog once again. There was a lot to admire in that, ”Are we agreed, my fellow leaders? I am sure you do not trust me, but I think you can trust me to keep him in check. I have killed him before, and I will do it again only too gladly. And while you may not appreciate the reason behind it, you can trust that I will jealously guard my prey.” Noora's spine prickled as her hunter eyes met the other woman's. Though she understood the deeper meaning of her words, Noora still suppressed, with white knuckles, the wolf inside her at the thought of any vampire taking Mercia from this earth.

The petite beauty beside her simply laughed and Noora began to smooth out her proverbial wrinkles, "Both of these vampire rulers will be sorely disappointed, Noora. They bicker like fishwives over me, as if they forget that I belong to no one and nothing, and that neither of them has what it takes to destroy me." Noora closed her eyes in pause as a smile began to cross her face. Mercia turned with the wind, silent and ethereal. She followed, not needing Mercia's command to direct her actions with this matter. She was very finished here, on this beach, in this moment.
The battle and scenes of the act hung in the air for a few moments longer as the sound of the ocean filled their ear whole, making their way silently towards the tree-line.
The silence surrounded the couple even as they slipped through the trees. She could feel Mercia's strength and power regenerating gradually, but still hindered.

It was beautiful, the twilight night through the deep greens and browns tones, and the star speckled sky above. Sometimes, Noora truly wondered what returning to the light would be like. Would the mortals and immortals suffer the same blindness to the sun and reflectance of light? Their bodies had adjusted to this change, the mortals evolving into their own 'creatures of the night', so to speak. Would the world darken before a gradual lightening? How bright would it really be?
Noora lived in one of the more northern parts of the world as a child. She became accustomed to a grey, winter sky from a young age, where the lights were always muted. As she aged and traveled to France, she saw sunlight in all it's brilliance. Hues of pink, yellows, creams... light came in so many forms. Changed the sky into layers of dimensions. How would she fair if that were to come back after so many centuries?

In the distance, she felt them all before she saw the flickers of amber fires and heard their jolly, drunken laughters. Mercia barely inclined her head as she spoke, a smile, much like the one back with the Vampires, smothered her plump lips, "I need to eat. I am pleased to see my orders carried out." Noora smirked as they traveled quickly over the terrain, "Thank you, Mercia. But it is not all my doing. Maeve has proven herself very well over these last couple months. You have her to thank for being the watch of our people in our absence."

Upon reaching the camp, the roars of laughter and conversation were much, and the flames were brighter--higher. Noora glanced around, happy to see her crew comfortable. Mercia moved off to survey the group, the General following behind a good ten paces behind. She caught a glimpse of Maeve and Ambrose returning from somewhere off the beach. She nodded in their direction slowly and continued on behind Mercia. It brought a real happiness to her heart to see these people forgetting for one moment why they were here, what they were fighting for and against whom. It was also a memory of when she was younger, not yet a year after her mother had passed, when her and her father would meet at little gatherings like this with their neighbours of far. It made them feel a little less alone in the rough, cold winters.
When Mercia had her fill of looking, she moved on to fill her stomach. Finding a nice place to sit and feast among her people, Noora took a few moments longer to stand and watch over everyone. She wasn't quite finished living a little far away in her mind. She did not get the opportunity very often.
Maeve's presence at her side moments later was an indication that enough time had passed for her recollections. Noora shot a sideways glance at the girl before crossing her arms over her chest and returning to watching, but now with a listening ear. The girl spoke first, “I have to admit my disappointment that Paradin is back. His sister is doing a much better job than he ever did.”
Noora smirked, what a clever girl. And so she tilted her head finally towards her lieutenant, watching the crushed, dripping mango in her talon-like grasp, "He is but a nuisance. And, yet, a challenge that we should all learn to take in stride. Dismal as that can seem, ce la vie."
Maeve's expression was clear. Much like a child being put in their place but not arguing they were at fault, she was calm outwardly but within her skin, those feathers were very ruffled, “Is there anything you require of me? If not I think I’m going to have a nice sit by the fire before retiring if you allow it.”
"No," Noora shook her head, looking forward once again, "Do rest. You have done very well today. Be proud of your work... I am." she shot the girl a genuine smile before nodding for her to take her leave.

With Maeve on her way, Noora took herself over to sit next to Mercia, and for some time, eating with her Queen in a comfortable silence. She feasted herself on the meat and fruit, but only enough for strength. Noora almost never indulged food for the sake of gluttony or pleasure. Food was a necessary resource. It was strength... Sometimes tasteful, but strength nonetheless.
Digesting was her next step, and with the small talk around the camp boring her, and the crackle of the fire calming her, she needed to find a more active approach. Mercia had been quiet but seemingly content as she had finished and decided to sit with her kin for a little while. Noora appreciated that about her Queen. She liked her people. She was true to her inner were. She was an animal.
Noora slowly leaned over and lifted her chin as she spoke, "I am going to let go and run, paws to earth. Would you like to join me?"

[zfatal]

"Careful, I bite."

“As far as I’m concerned, if this were to be mentioned to either side, it was purely a disagreement that was settled. Agreed?”

Ambrose didn’t bother suppressing the chuckle in his voice. “Maybe you should ask him that.” The shark glanced over to see Bernardo once again helping that leech, Jack, to hobble off into the shadows. While Ambrose had to shake his head at the beast’s choice of friends, at least Bernardo was making them. The fellow was too reserved and polite to have much of a good time out here. As for Jack, Ambrose knew him well enough to know that the leech would shrug off the fight in less than a half hour. If Ambrose had really wanted to hurt Jack, he wouldn’t have been getting back up off that beach. And there was nothing like a fine brawl to get the blood flowing and help a fellow feel invigorated and alive again—especially after a crowded, cramped journey. Perhaps Jack wouldn’t see it that way, but they were friends—and none of Ambrose’s friends ever got away from having a friendly brawl with him. Glancing over at Maeve, another smile crept up on Ambrose’s lips; he rested his case.

Maeve expressed some concern over a bruise that Jack had given him. She touched his face, appraising the injury but Ambrose shrugged it off. “You’re worried? About this?” His eyes widened in recognition when she explained that she didn’t want anybody asking any questions. If she had been concerned for his well being, he might have to ask who was she and what had she done with Maeve. As it was, he still waved off her concerns. “Trust me, Maeve, I’d be more suspicious if I didn’t have any fresh bruises or scrapes.” Putting her irregular behavior aside, they talked for a brief few minutes more before the flickers and crackles of the bonfire drew too near. Maeve was proving to be very nice company; if she didn’t think like him, at least she was quick-witted and flexible enough to understand the way he thought. She was an able comrade and, he noticed, she was quickly adapting to her role of leadership. Provided she stayed alive, he knew she might one day become a very powerful, threatening woman. It was very attractive to him, he conceded, even as he watched Mercia step out of the shadows and rejoin the camp—with Noora following not far behind. Before he could puzzle that one out, he realized that Maeve had seen the pair as well, and was taking her leave. “Anyway, you should take the opportunity to get something to eat now.” He watched her turn away, eyes immediately noticing the curve of her body against the harsh firelight. Her hair seemed to glow. “Ciao, guapo,”* were her playful parting words.

“Chica tonta,” he said under his breath, amused. Speaking Spanish with an accent like that. “Esta masacrando mi idioma….”*

With his only source of entertainment gone, Ambrose surveyed the two camps from his central position. On the one hand, he saw Mercia, Noora, and Maeve patrolling the beast camp quite frequently. Watching them from afar, something felt not right, but it was such a subtle thing that the shark chose not to dwell on it. All was well for the time being, he concluded. Glancing over at the leech camp, though, he noticed some telltale details. Having spent this much time with the leeches, unfortunately, Ambrose had developed something of an eye for their body language. He honestly had Micah to thank for that, the b*****d. Even worse, the shark could now admit that he had a tolerance for the incessant ticking, which he swore he could hear, feel, and sense at all hours of the day. It now felt like a low, constant hum in the background of his mind, something he found easier to ignore—but annoyingly, something that no longer made him desire to kill vampires at every second of the day. Estoy perdiendo mi toque*, he thought with some dismay. It wouldn’t do to lose his edge and go soft just because of this .. this truce, this leech-killing hiatus. It didn’t stop him from realizing that there was now some disquiet amongst the vampires. The way they sat, the way they moved, the way they acted … Ambrose realized with some humor that he knew that behavior exactly. In large part, these leeches believed there was a shark among them.

It didn’t take but a second; without stopping to consider whether he could endure being surrounded by all that ticking, or how the vampires would receive him, Ambrose moved straight towards the heart of the leech encampment. His face gave away nothing of his intent, and any leech that had a problem with him chose wisely not to voice it. Otherwise relaxing leeches saw him, scowled, then quickly moved into larger clusters. It was far too similar to how stranded mortals behaved in the open ocean, when sharks were a very real threat to safety. Ambrose navigated the paths between the fires, slowly, confidently prowling with all the comfort of an unseen predator. He took his time, wandering where he would, observing all there was to see and listening too. Not that the leeches said much when he was near, but he picked up fragments of conversation nonetheless. The ticking all around him swelled into such a roar that he tuned out his own sense, blinding himself of crucial awareness. It still didn’t bother him, but it was like trying to hear over a mighty waterfall. He was here to observe the ranks and gather information. If any leech was brazen enough to attack him from behind, they would have earned the surprise attack he was giving them by deafening his own electric sense.

It was not sight or sound or heartbeat that gave away his first morsel, but smell. Ambrose caught an oh-so-familiar whiff of an old friend: an intermingled scent of gunpowder, worn leather, and a hint of grease on metal, coupled with the scents of the forest and the vaguest touch of fish. At first he didn’t see her, but eventually his nose led his gaze to fall on the darkness beneath a tree, well away from the firelight. There stood Julienne, cleaning her weapon, some kind of pistol, as she spoke with someone. Her back was slightly turned towards Ambrose, so she did not notice his distant appraisal. But there she was, another woman he counted among his enemies; there were so many of them, but this one was especially enticing to hunt. Here was a woman, he had learned over the months at sea, who operated coldly and efficiently, with no hesitation and the utmost brutality—when necessary. She was something of a godsend for the leeches, and apparently she was also an associate of Micah’s. That made sense; they both came from a military background, and the woman was likely in part responsible for the hasty training the vampires received. If the leeches … if Ataraxia were to lose Julienne, it would be a castrating blow to the whole race. And if there was a shark in the water, the best way to draw it out would be to cut open a wound, and draw some blood. With Micah absent from duty as well, the beasts would grow obviously more powerful, the truce would not last, and the beasts would continue the wiping of the leeches from existence that they started in New Londontown.

Ambrose had been watching the exchange for some time. He absently licked his teeth, playing out all the possible scenarios in which he removed Julienne from power. The nameless, faceless person she had been speaking with parted ways with her, and headed in his direction. The Spaniard remained fixated on Julienne, not registering the other vampire’s approach until he was but a few steps away. Ambrose was even more surprised when the leech spoke to him. “What’s a mangy mutt doing so far off his leash?” Useless insults were of no concern to Ambrose. His eyes flicked over the brave, but stupid leech, hovered an instant, and almost flicked back to watching Julienne. It was only by instinct that he stopped himself, deliberately looking at this new leech and really looking. Something was off about the fellow, some small detail he couldn’t quite place. Was it scent? Ambrose couldn’t tell. He cautiously expanded his senses, feeling the other’s heartbeat—which was fast. Much faster than normal. If Ambrose’s senses had been fully articulated before, he would have noticed this vampire much sooner, from much further away. As it was, he knew this … this leech, he wasn’t normal.

“I go where I want,” Ambrose replied coolly. The leech met his gaze unflinchingly, to its credit. The hostility was blaringly apparent, but Ambrose was unfazed as always. No leech was this arrogant, or stupid. He subconsciously revealed his teeth, mouth only open the slightest bit, ever the natural predator. “If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with my teeth.” He would realize just who the hell he was dealing with, and leave—or else he would quickly learn a valuable lesson.





Ciao, guapo; goodbye, handsome.

Chica tonta. Esta masacrando mi idioma; Silly girl. Butchering my language.

Estoy perdiendo mi toque; I'm losing my touch.

[Phoenix Skyy]

Noora’s answer, Maeve suspected, was meant to both slyly chastise and to admittedly comment on the present situation. As was her way Noora and Mercia, Maeve kept a calm surface while underneath she was without a doubt deeply frustrated. Even if things were still rough, even though there was still great distrust between the races that had been warring for centuries, even if they were undoubtedly in need of each therefore a truce had to be in place in order for both to be able to work to destroy the Templars, nothing could have made matters worse than Paradin. Mercia was finally coming around to being her “old” self again, with or without the Leech King, and things had been running fairly smoothly with Ataraxia as Queen and Julienne as General. Both sides had reached an unexpected symbiosis in Maeve’s opinion, even if her personal feelings towards the whole situation were not. It was evident: both races could live together in peace. However, throw Kestral Paradin into the mix and they would live together in pieces, just as when they had left the havoc stricken docks of New Londontown. He was the weight on the scale that even alone would destroy balance, his sister could weigh Mercia out, oddly enough, on the scales that determined the balance of their world...for now.

The situation at hand was likely to prove a difficult task for the Raven.

“"Do rest. You have done very well today. Be proud of your work... I am.”

Looking to her general who had just relieved her of duty Maeve nodded as she tossed the mango out to the woods for the lesser beasts to eat. It was then that she caught the last part of the statement. She looked to her general, unsure whether to smile or to go on her way as Noora nodded for her to leave. The ends of her lips curled up as she nodded. “I’ve only done as you and Mercia would have me do, but I thank you for your praise. I await your summons.” With another curt nod, she walked away.

She let her thoughts wrap around her. Most were a comfort, others loomed above her, threatening, and that was something Morrigan’s Daughter couldn’t stand. If she was to let herself be captured by another wave of thoughts, by God, she’d set herself free of this skin. Taking a running start, she jumped high and shifted, the plumage shifting effortlessly over a once human dermis, intelligent emerald eyes shifted upward as she took to the skies; her legs were still running as she flapped to gain altitude. For a moment, Julienne passed through her mind, followed by an odd sensation. Why did that woman always see fit to annoy her while she was still partly chained to the island or the ship as in the past several months? But the higher she rose, the less she cared, the less she desired, and the less she doted. Maeve finally felt free of the Spanish land mass known as the Black Island and began to soar around. She took inventory during her observations, finally scouting the area both as a personal mission and one for Noora. It was probably greatly overdue, but there was little either race had to worry about. The island was deserted, the mainland wasn’t far off, and there weren’t any landforms either would need be concerned about. Lowering herself from the high altitude to a couple of hundred feet above the water she began to search the ocean and channel for any signs of danger or suspicious behavior. There were some vampires returning back from the mainland, now having their fill of mortal blood. Even in the cold murky waters she could sense a lighter mood amongst the leeches, although she was sure it wasn’t quite happiness. The scent of blood loomed heavily in the air, but the closer she moved to the island the less it was; likely the leeches were being cleaned of the scent, so Maeve put it out of her mind. She moved on as she searched the Island round having found no immediate dangers nor did anything too suspicious catch her attention. At last she was free of her obligations and responsibilities, but her the thoughts that once plagued her that set her to the skies felt too earthbound for her to find comfort amongst the winds and breezes that caressed and carried her. She enjoyed the sensations a little while longer before making her decent and landing on the shore beside the boots she had set aside earlier that evening. She put them on after knocking the sand off of her feet and replacing her stockings, and went back to the grassy lands her people resided on.

Managing to get some ale from a tankard they had brought on shore, she navigated her way through the crowd before nearly running into Bernardo. A soft grin crept across her face, thankful to have saved her tankard from spilling, and thankful to have found him without spilling ale on him. “Ah! Just the gent I was looking for,” she said taking him gently by the arm and leading them to a log by the fire that had just become available. The warmth was comforting and the company around them was enriching. Dozens of beasts celebrating life after a long, hard voyage, many from different cultures and origins. It was a fascinating gathering, and could only have happened under Mercia’s presence. She turned to Bernardo, another face in the crowd that was not likely to be there if the circumstances that occurred that evening two months ago had not. “I take there’s a chance you were searching for me, too, yes? Let’s warm ourselves and have a nice chat, you and I.”

Pushing her skirts under so they wouldn’t bunch underneath, she took her seat while motioning for him to sit beside her. Maeve took a quick swig of her drink before putting it down beside her, then her attentions turned back to him. “So, how have you been during this trip? I take you’re not quite used to ships, at least so say your legs during a majority of the trip.” She shrugged to him before smiling with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t worry too much about it, my last voyage across water that didn’t include flight was when I was child. I can’t say I was quite adapted as well as others on board. Doesn’t help when you’re sky bound beast.” He responded, telling her of his time on ships before, to which she gave a confused look, especially as she recalled his demeanor on board didn’t reflect his past. He explained the difference and she nodded, listening intently. It wasn’t like she hadn’t passed him on board before, let alone hadn’t learned his name before. It was a requirement of her job to learn nearly everyone on board so she could work efficiently. She also searched him out a time or two for help with stains on her skirts during the trip, but she never had to bother much with Bernardo otherwise. Sure, an order a time or two to make sure what job he was assigned was done to the best of the tailor’s abilities, but that didn’t mean she knew much about him. At least she could take the time now, they were off of the ship that required constant attention and work, and she was relieved of duty until further notice. However, she also had her own questions that she wanted answered, ones that sparked during the fight.

He seemed to question her, not angrily or upset, but it seemed out of curiosity how he set his eyes on her. She understood why. It was she who had asked him to come see and speak with her later on, but she did her best to reassure him he had nothing to worry about. Taking another sip from her drink, she turned another reassuring smile at him. “I can understand if you’re wondering why I wished to speak with you, I would be just as curious. I simply want to know more about your relationship with Jack. It’s not common for werebeasts and lee- I’m sorry, vampires to get along as well as the two of you do. Case and point the fight between Ambrose and Jack. I think we both know if it was serious, Ambrose would’ve killed Jack, but he resisted the kill because he’s familiar with him. I wouldn’t call it friendship, but at the least my guess would be they have an understanding. However, that doesn’t explain you.”

She expected an uncomfortable shift. She expected him to remain silent. She expected he didn’t want to talk about it. However, nothing in his demeanor changed that hinted he was uncomfortable or rather stay silent. Whether or not he wanted to talk about it was his own business, but he seemed ready to talk. Pulling her hair to the other shoulder and resting her head in her hand, she prepared herself to listen intently again. Another reassuring smile crossed her face for good measure, but she could honestly say was curious about the subject she was to ask about. “So, Bernardo, would tell me about you and Jack?”

[Hamletmaschine]

Jack slowly opened his eyes to the shadow of a humanesque being hovering above him. Somewhere between the blood loss causing his head to spin, and the horrible damage Ambrose had done to his body, Jack could not fathom words or sight. Although, the sea ran clearer than a bell against his ears, and he knew well enough that the form above him was Bernardo--the one person he wished it actually was not. He was so broken, drained and utterly embarrassed at his own behaviour. What a thing for Bernardo to have witnessed, what a person for him to have seen.

All too quickly, the harmonics of the sea lessened and the firm but cautious hands of the tailor, his lover, grasped Jack's arms and gingerly hauled the vampire to his wary feet. He had held out his hands to him with sad eyes but the all-knowing, slightly sly smirk.
Bernardo kindly carried Jack a ways until the edge of the jungle forest was at their toes and a large boulder became a seat for their tired legs. Much like their walk, Jack's mind was a clean slate. Blank. Void of reason or feelings or thoughts. He simply was for the moment, just a body. As Bernardo sat quietly next to him, he pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to the vampire. Jack's gaze suddenly then cleared just enough to return to reality. He could clearly hear Bernardo's heartbeat, his breathing, and nearly for a moment he swore he heard his thoughts. Jack was so out of it.
Taking the kerchief silently, he dabbed at his forehead, where blood had trickled down from somewhere into his left eye, making it sting. How had he even get to this point? What was going on? He continued to clean himself off slowly, taking notes on what hurt, and what was damaged. God, he needed to feed so badly. His chest was beginning to hurt, his heart grinding iron on iron.

Finished, Jack looked down at the small cloth in his palm. It was soiled lightly with grime and sand, but more heavily with a combination of blood in crimson, garnet and brown. The sounds of the tides were further away than he preferred now, and all he could focus on was the pain in his chest and body, and the breathing at his side. Jack slowly cast his gaze upward and turned his head towards Bernardo, who was looking to him with worried and downtrodden eyes. He looked away again quickly, sorry he had caused such emotions to his partner.
"What am I supposed to do with you? I thought that I was the reckless one."
Jack felt Bernardo's hand slowly caress over his back, clamping on his opposite shoulder and pulling him closer to the warmth and certainty of his body. His wounds were healing slowly, so he indulged and leaned in for comfort, "I'm sorry." he uttered above a whisper.
"What got into you Jack? I have no right to take away the fight that you need to fight, but why the shark?" Jack closed his tired eyes slowly. How long since he had slept? Truly slept? How long since he took a life and drank till he could not recall a day before it, so he would not need to feed for another year? He was ravenous, and oh so exhausted. Sighing, breaking his silence, Jack lifted his head a little, placing his hand gently on Bernardo's leg, "I... He just irks me so easily. I would see you together, on the ship, when it could have been me, and I would become so jealous. And you would bunk together, when I would have killed for it to have been us..." Jack trailed off slightly, opening his eyes to look out over the water, "When he looked at us together, I knew he knew. He cares only that you, as an ally, don't get hurt. But I... He would kill me in an instant and without a second thought. If there was no truce, he would do it, Bernardo. It is by duty that he would do it. As I would to him. He knows...It just drove me to the edge knowing he can so easily, and will, hold that over my head. He has me by ball and chain now, and can use it whenever he wishes... or it is my head on the block." Jack's voice hardened as he spoke, grip strengthening on Bernardo's leg even as the words left his thought process.
As he finished, he slowly calmed and breathed deeply, closing his eyes once more, "It's just this lack of blood..." he started just as Bernardo pulled back slightly, rousing Jack to sit up straight again swiftly, fearful he had offended his dearest friend, "Jack. You are very dear to me. I'd rather take your pain than have you bear it." Bernardo muttered cautiously. His eyes were firm, even though his voice wavered and posture was poised.
Jack read him over thoroughly, his eyes asking for certainty before, sliding forward slightly to place a cold hand against Bernardo's neck as he leaned in to his companion's ear, [colour=darkblue]"I will not harm you, friend." he whispered, placing the softest of kisses on the man's jaw. It was hard to control himself. For a drained vampire to want to take every last drop from someone willing (sort of)... it was difficult for Jack to want to hold back. But it was deeper than a promise. It was a vow. The metallic fangs sank into the were's neck swiftly to ease the puncture pain, and the moment the crimson liquid soaked his tongue his instincts became alive, and it took all of his will and strength to stay firm to his vow. He drank just enough to lubricate his clockwork heart and to bring himself back from the haze of his mild delirium. But it just... tasted so damn good. Like fruit, like chocolate, like creme. It was sinful and he wanted to indulge gulps neverending.
The vampire pulled his mouth away from the werewolf's neck and closed his eyes in surrender. He breathed deeply through his nose and felt the blood worm into every cell. His feet tingled and fingers buzzed. When he opened his eyes, he sat straighter and looked deeply into Bernardo's eyes just long enough to smile in content and place a bloodied kiss upon his lips.

Bernardo seemed to take to the bloodletting with much more confidence than the last time. And was pretty pleased with the final results. He spared Jack no expense at helping him off the boulder and walking with him in support until the blood had worked it's way over the wounds and healed them enough to get Jack moving on his own accords. Jack pouted only a few moments when the warmth of his supernatural counterpart escaped into the cool wind of the sea.
And, all too quickly, it was time for them to part. Here, Jack did pout. Firmly and at length. Many small kisses were shared but finally, Bernardo left his sight to delve into the camps and join the ranks. Jack had now the strength to swim to the city and take the blood that he needed to keep him in tip-top shape for the next few months, so long as there wasn't another immediate battle...

The water had been cold, but not as bad as the frigid Thames when he had escaped the clutches of his crazed damsel, Adelaide. The winter had brought the temperature much colder than normal. Here, the waters were more south and gently refreshing.
When he arrived up on the docks of the city, he felt nearly exhausted again. Desperate to feed, he became a phantom in the shadows, stalking potential prey until he devoured a victim not worthy of remembrance. And then, for good measure, another on the way out--a coast guard that needed not to know of their activities. As Jack slid the corpse into the ocean with himself, he found the casual strange glow to the island in the distance. They would need to all be mindful of their camps and activities. This city would not take well to them, of that he was certain.

Jack arrived back at the island, alive and very spirited. His wounds had all healed and his heart was working without signs of failing. The amount of blood he had consumed this night was glorious, and he intended to keep most of it for a long while.
Wringing out his shirt and draining his boots, Jack let his bare feet feel the sand for the first time. His senses were impeccable, and it made him curious as to how muted they had been for so long with the lack of blood. The feeling was strange but exciting!
He carried his boots in his hand as he took his time sauntering towards the camps along the shores. Though he was at peace and his eyes helplessly wandered over the water and horizon, he felt the strangest of presences. Something had changed. Something, overall, was different. Not just the Vampires but the Weres as well, all felt... cautious. And there was a being here of incredible power, comparable to Ataraxia and Mercia. To whom this mystery person was, Jack himself was instantly wary to find out...But as he closed the distance, he knew all to his own dismay that it was Kestrel. He did not understand how or why but it was all too much his own that Jack knew it was not a foolish prank. Kestrel was here, somehow, and this was a very big problem. One he hoped he wouldn't need to run into right now. Not when he was just in such a good mood.
Reaching the vampire encampment, he made his way to one of the fires and slid himself into divot in the sand, his back resting against a large driftwood slab, to dry himself off and cozy up against the flames. The people around him were edgy but generally still talkative. Thankfully not rowdy. He did not see anyone of familiarity in sight, so he closed his eyes slowly and just listened and opened himself up to feel the beings around him. Confirmation in Kestrel's return was the biggest conversation on everyone's lips, and that just sank Jack further into solidarity. He really did not want to be part of any of it. He opened his eyes to gaze into the fire, silent. He was tired. Really tired. He could just fall asleep here in this moment and be happy. But that wasn't likely. Not for some several more hours when most of the others may quiet down. Though, the more Jack thought about the idea, the more he felt the urge to get up and go somewhere to rest. The hard part would be leaving this current comfort... and in the end, he didn't.