❝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 ]

[Phoelidae]

Paris felt like a hive housing a swarm of filthy insects. If she had thought the streets of New Londontown were close, they had nothing on the convoluted rat’s nest that was Paris. The very air seemed compacted, humid and thick and still, and there were fewer lights here than in Londontown, leaving the shadows to rule and wreak havoc on perception.

But more than anything else, Paris was bloody. The earth, the air, the very roads and stones of the buildings reeked with it, stank in a way that spoke of centuries of blood spilt and soaked into the city’s very soul. Old stains marked the streets, the walls, the alleys, painting the city in the rusted black of dried blood. There was even a carriage, broken and jagged, crushed such that it looked like a ruined leviathan trying to rise from the earth. There were bloody handprints still visible on the sides and windows.

Vast swathes of the city appeared to be totally uninhabited, while others swarmed with vampire life. But of genuine life, she saw nothing. No weres, and no humans. A world of vampires was what she had always been working toward, but this was not what she’d had in mind. Paris was not a city that had risen anew in a glorious age of enlightened immortality, it was a city that had fallen hungrily into ruin. The vampires of Paris ran through the streets in ragtag gangs, leaderless, purposeless, and beginning to starve (from the gaunt looks they had about them). Had they drained their food supply into extinction? How long had this city been teetering on the edge of complete decay? The leeches she passed watched her with the hungry eyes of fallen monsters, devoid of ambition or self-respect, just living together like a pack of rabid animals. How was it that no one had risen to take control?

She stalked the streets in search of prey, but there was none to be found. She had been feeding … immoderately, since Spain. She had forgotten, in the depths of her self-pity, that even if feeding on human blood couldn’t make her feel alive, it could at least bring her a hair closer. And the more blood she drank, well, the closer she imagined she was coming. It still wasn’t a tenth of what a single drop of Jackal blood could do, but it got her by. Better, it was returning strength she had not even realized she had lost, and it had even improved her appearance, if only insofar as making her sunken features and skeletal figure look a little further from Death’s door.

But this newfound addiction had also begun to take its own, special toll. She found herself feeding once, even twice a day, and craving her next meal long before she should. She used to go weeks without feeding, but now if she went more than a day she became … volatile, quicker to anger, less tolerant of the idiocy that surrounded her and hungrier for violence. It was as though she could think of nothing until her hunger for blood was sated … and she did not like the power this new need had over her.

But she had also gone three days now without blood, and the hunger was making her vicious. Like it or not, she needed to feed. She needed to find fresh blood.

Fate must have been with her, because she turned a corner in her hunt and caught a scent, turning to see a thin, well-dressed man emerge from an old cathedral, licking an errant drop of blood from the cuff of his coat. He moved down the steps and was gone in an instant, but Ataraxia had already found her clue. She watched for perhaps half an hour more, but there was no other movement. Finally she moved forward silently, climbed the steep steps, and pushed through the heavy wooden door, which shut behind her with a resounding slam.

Inside the cathedral was aglow with candlelight and burning oil lamps, and orchestral music played softly on some sort of mechanized sound-recorder. The empty heart of the cathedral had been broken up by painted wooden walls, though a large space remained, filled with chairs, tables, and couches, all richly upholstered, but eclectic, as though they had been pillaged from a dozen different aristocratic and bourgeoisie households. Wealthy vampires occupied some, and humans others.

A middle-aged man with olive skin and a charming white smile caught her eye and moved toward her, his hands sketching a bow as he flashed his human smile. Violet eyes flicked cautiously from his face to the young man behind him, his head tossed back as a female vampire fed from one wrist and a male fed from the other. The room was full of entwined bodies, and the scent of blood was so thick she could taste it on the back of her tongue. Her eyes returned to the man before her, studying the handsome face and shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair. He was the friendliest, most hospitable looking human she had ever seen, shirtless and well-built for a mortal, but there was something off about him … it was only then that she realized that it wasn’t just shadowy candlelight dappling his skin – he was covered in scars. Neat punctures, deeper crescent shapes, and here and there evidence of a brutal tear. Of what she could see, they concentrated at his throat, his wrists, and his inner elbows – everywhere fangs might find an accessible vein, but there were scarce inches of him that were unmarred by vampire feeding. Surprise lifted her brows, but the man only smiled invitingly in the face of her scrutiny.

”Some of our newer members are less marked, if you prefer virgin skin, but we also ask that you limit the places you bite so that they may remain so longer,” he explained, in accented but perfect English.

Ataraxia’s lips thinned, wary in the extreme. She had little interest in the treatment of humans, but the thought of any creature kept in chains raised her hackles. ”Are you slave or slaver?” she asked, her voice dark and neutral. He smiled again, and she realized he was trying to be reassuring. She had never visited a whore-house, but she supposed it would behoove such a place to be … comforting.

“There are no slaves here. We choose to be here. In exchange for feeding those vampire who can control themselves, we gain protection from those who cannot. All are welcome to leave if they wish, but these days none last long without help.” His smile faltered, his eyes darkening with memory. ”The hordes will suck a mortal dry in heartbeats if there’s a fang in every vein. We will be extinct if we do not adapt. So we adapt.”

Ataraxia couldn’t argue with that logic.

”Now,” the man stepped closer with a smile, reaching out to cup her cheek, ”you look like you’re starving.”

Her hand snapped up so fast that his poker face slipped, and the scent of fear hit her in a wave as his arm fell away. He took half a step back before he could recover his composure, but that reaction to her speed and power told her that this was not a place frequented by the exceptionally powerful of Paris – it was evidently for the bourgeoisie vampires. More than likely the most powerful had found themselves private pets, just as ancient kings kept their own concubines.

The mortal was smiling again, but his eyes were wary now instead of welcoming. ”I meant no offense, mademoiselle. See something more to your tastes?” He gestured at the room behind him, where many had turned to watch the exchange of newcomer and manager. Before she could answer, a young woman, barely more than a girl really, approached her with big brown doe eyes, her body scarcely hidden by sheer silks. In some world where the Jackal had been a lover instead of a fighter, soft instead of hard, this girl might have been her sister – petite, curvy, with long honey hair, though it waved instead of curled, and the girl’s face was that bland sort of pretty instead of the harsh beauty of Mercia’s. She studied the tall vampiress before her carefully, and then lifted her delicate hands slowly and placed them on Ataraxia’s shoulders, standing on tip-toe to look her more squarely in those violet eyes.

”We are no threat to those like you, Old One,” she murmured in stilted English, dropping her eyes to the queen’s silver fangs. ”We live and die by the pleasure of you and your kin. It is a privilege to feed the Old Ones, and does not even hurt if you know the way.” She held Ataraxia’s eyes and swept all of her waves over one shoulder, leaving the side of her pale throat exposed as she tipped her head in invitation. Hunger clawed at the Red Death’s insides, uncoiling like a woken dragon, melting everything else away and replacing it with that need. Thought and reservation dissolved – what did she care, when there was blood to be had, fresh and hot and rushing beneath such soft feminine skin …

Before she realized what was happening she was being led into a private room, and the girl’s body was pressed against her. She couldn’t feel it, but she could hear the girl’s breath, see the eager glint in her eyes, smell her anticipation. Somewhere in her mind, she wondered what sort of sick person wanted to be bled like cattle, but she was past any interest in such ethical questions. She could see the pulse in the girl’s throat just below the skin, and hunger raged in her gut, twisting and melting with other strange longings and volatile desires, things only the Jackal made her feel. And then it was Mercy before her, looking up at her, offering the blood that could make her alive again. Her thumb hovered over that pounding pulse, and the girl touched her wrist and murmured, ”You will feel more if you take your gloves off …”

She could not have said what it was about that particular statement, but something in her snapped violently, and faster than the eye could blink she had fisted that previously gentle hand in the girl’s hair, wrenched her head back, and plunged her fangs into her throat. The girl gave a scream that dissolved into a moan, and her body went limp as her blood flooded into the vampire’s mouth. Ataraxia reveled in it, cradling the girl almost gently as she savaged her throat, stealing her life to feed the empty lack of her own. She forgot herself, lost herself in the sweet rush of wine-scented blood, and only regained herself when she felt the girl’s pulse falter, the flow of blood subsiding. She had some dim awareness that she was only a human, and only the other humans would care if she died … but there had been something in her eyes when she locked her gaze with the queen’s, a strength and fire that had captured her interest. The girl was a survivor, however much she looked like a victim, or she would not have made it this long. She risked her life every night to keep on living her sad existence, and somehow Ataraxia could respect that. She disengaged her fangs with soft groan and licked the girl’s throat clean, setting her gently onto the bed. She had lost consciousness some minutes previously, but her blood loss wasn’t quite lethal. Provided she was strong enough, of course.

She left her there with a fistful of coins beside her, and a curt apology to the proprietor for tapping her out for the night. He looked pleasantly surprised that the vampire hadn’t killed her, and Ataraxia wondered as she stepped out into the darkness if she truly looked so feral. Then again, she had seriously considered draining the girl of every last drop … so perhaps his surprise as warranted.

She was roaming the streets trying to decide where to go next when a stranger’s voice caught up with her.

”Lookey here mates, it’s the mighty Lord Kestrel, isn’t it?” The mocking voice was followed by the raucous laughter of what she could only assume to be a number of low-brow vampires, drunk on the idiocy of complacency. She kept walking, the flare of her long coat obscuring her figure.

”Hey Paradin! We’re talking to you!”

She paused only long enough to look over her shoulder. ”You have a case of mistaken identity on your hands, gentlemen. I would advise you to move along.”

One of the men spit. ”What the hell Gaston, that’s a woman. That’s no king, just some English b***h!”

Another of the men, presumably Gaston, scoffed. ” How could I have known? She’s tall enough to be a man, she walks like one, and she’s got that hair! You, you of some relation? I saw him once, and you’re his spitting image.” She had never appreciated that comment. ”Tell us where to find Kestrel and maybe we’ll just let you go on your way.”

”Let me?” she sneered, the recent feeding making her more rash than she might otherwise have been. ”You won’t be letting me do anything. Kestrel is no kin of mine.”

“No no,” one of the men said, stepping forward and pointing at her, ” come to think on it, I did hear tales that he had a sister, some hell-spawned demon b***h with teats and balls, who tried to rip her brother’s head right off his shoulders.”

Ataraxia turned on her heel with a smile that would have made Death himself hesitate, filled with all the frigid fire of Dante’s seventh ring of Hell. She cast her eyes over the four men before her and flexed her fingers. The butter-soft leather was so worn it didn’t make even the softest creak. ”You have been misinformed, monsieurs. I did rip his head off.”

With a deceptively delicate hiss, her wires whipped through the air, flashing like lightning in the moonlight, there one moment and gone the next. The first man gave a gurgling cry as blood spat from his severed jugular, and the three others closed ranks with surprisingly competent quickness, rushing toward her to offset the advantage of her wires. But they underestimated her own speed, and the next flick of her wires took the feet out from two of them, slicing the Achilles tendon of one who howled like a dog. The fourth was the cleverest, he twisted and ducked and changed direction faster than she could arc her wires at close range – but he mistook her for weak behind her weapon. Heel met jaw when she turned and kicked high, and she heard the gratifying ceramic crunch of grinding vertebrae in a snapped spine. He dropped like a stringless puppet, not dead but certainly crippled for a good half hour at least.

She wrapped her wires around the neck of one of the fallen men and turned, the full force of her body and strength cinching the wires tight enough to sever his spinal cord and remove his head almost too quickly for the blood to flow. One of the other shouted at her, but she caught him in her turn and slammed her palm against his chest, so hard that rib splintered under the blow, and shards of bone passed through lungs and ground into the clockwork gears of his heart. He fell, convulsing, and Ataraxia smiled like the devil, wheeling again to catch the man with the severed jugular. He was still pulsing blood as he staggered toward her, a desperate move. She dug her fingers into his damaged throat and threw him against the wall, where he fell in a heap. Her heel landed on his wrist as he reached for a gun, and she crouched, looking at him almost … playfully. Playful as a cat with a crippled mouse. She took the knife from his belt and split open his chest, extracting his frantically ticking heart and tossing it over her shoulder, watching the broken bits of it flash in the dim moonlight. Maybe Nihilo had been wrong about the value of not getting one’s hands dirty, she thought, as she wiped the blood from her cheek. That had almost been fun. But a groan from behind her reminded her that she wasn’t quite finished yet.

She crouched beside the crippled man with the broken spine, the only one whose heart was still ticking. His eyes were rolling frantically in his head, but before she could do anything else his arm flashed up unexpectedly, driving a blade into her side just below her ribs. Ataraxia hissed, but in surprise more than pain, and she did not jump back as he had no doubt expected. Instead, she wrapped her hand around his throat, unfazed by the blade protruding from her abdomen. ”Tell your master, whoever he may be, that if he wishes to carry out an assassination, he had best be certain of the identity of his target. But I would warn you not to expect my brother to be so … light-handed with his punishment.” She smiled a black, joyless smile, little more than an upturned snarl, and drew the blade from her side without blinking. She curled her fist around it and lifted it slowly, studying the black cherry blood that slicked the blade, and then she swept her tongue out and licked it clean. Waste not want not, Nihilo had once said. Then she slammed the blade into the vampire’s stomach and twisted, shredding organ and intestine and ripping a pathetic scream from the writhing man before he fainted from pain. Any vampire more than a few months old would heal before the septic toxins corroded his heart, but it was still an excruciating wound. She remembered that agony all too well.

The Red Death straightened and touched her side, looking down at a palm slicked black. But the night had been so bloody, it was tough to say how much of that blood was her own. And for once, she didn’t care overmuch. She had quite enjoyed her bloody evening – Paris wasn’t so bad, after all. A couple pages stolen from her brother’s book, and perhaps this would be her perfect opportunity to turn the tables.

[Tummeh Fiend]

ℰ ven now, what was there to say?

He had started so many times, reciting apologies and explanations to his reflection in the window, arranging futile words while knowing their own futility. Nervous hands shoving his hair back from his temples, eyes closing incredulously. It hadn't been like this! How could so much change in such a brief moment, especially when measured against eternity? And then his eyes would flick open to the pallid face of his own countenance, begging for relief. He could not endure the suspension between betrayal and guilt, and always he found an apology on his lips. The dark-haired tailor mouthed condolences only to find a flat emptiness in the words, and as he tried to pinpoint why exactly he was apologizing, he found a blank space. Still, he muttered to himself out of necessity, hoping that if only he said the right things enough, the things that Jack should have said to him, it would make them true. It never did. After a while, Bernardo only apologized to himself for being caught up in someone else's insanity.

He heard the door slam behind him, heard Jack's whimpering from the inside before he stepped out into the night. Bernardo felt the hysteria rising. He had to get out. He had to escape. With each step away from the man he had cared for, still cared for, a viscous and clawing voice tried to wrench him back to the mess of his studio. To deny it was torture, for it was his better nature asking mercy of him. But his beast did not want mercy. It growled, purred at the rage that fed it's existence, and Bernardo wanted neither. His steps took him further into the forest, away from Amelia's fresh grave, furious at her even in death. The tailor walked without noticing anything but ever-stretching land until the ebb of exhaustion asked him to stop. To rest his body was to let his mind possess him, and he felt too much. He feared too much. Jack had always been right. So he didn't stop, but rather kept going until the monotony of his footsteps had calmed the hysteria, had lulled the beast back into a tentative sleep. Only then did he momentarily lean against a withered oak and press his palms into the sockets of his eyes. The longer he rested, the panic eagerly crept in, stealing breath and clear reasoning, and again he was forced to rise to make his way back for the sake of his composure

There was still no where he could turn to find peace. London was an ocean away, and all it promised, all it had ever promised after the war, was lonely deterioration. His new studio was left barren after all the wreckage had been cleared out, making Jack all the more vivid as he sat in the corner. Bernardo learned to avoid it lest he broke into frantic mood swings. The sign on his door had never so frequently displayed his absence. Towards France they traveled, and there he could feel the eyes of enemies on him. Even his bed was no consolation on the nights that the vampire stumbled in, his lashes wet, asking Bernardo for the sympathy to care for him, both knowing that they were spread too thin to comprehend sympathy. And when Jack wasn’t reminding him of his weakness, he was wandering far away from sight. Enough to worry him, to leave him shaking in the dim hours by the light of his candle, watching the door. Had he done it? Was he dead and tangled in the roots of some old tree? And as the days ticked forward, Bernardo found that he could not work on his sewing machine. His hands shook too violently, mottled with times he had slipped into the path of the needle, and besides, his mind was too far away. Still, Jack would leave him to slip into swings of guilt, of violence, of depression, until he swaggered through the door. His green eyes were weary. Always, the tailor wanted to reach out and embrace him, speak sweetly, speak of how he must not leave again, and always the anger welled to smother out his compassion. It took it all and left behind a numbness, bitter and inescapable. So they stood, frozen, confused, defeated.

It hadn't always been this way. Now, the kisses felt forced, the climbing into bed only a pantomime because they knew not what else to do. But, above all, they were both selfish enough to keep it up. Without warning, the tailor would wake up to find the other man absent, and the cycle would repeat. Words were only exchanged sparingly, any conversation quickly turning sour. Bernardo learned to be mute. His emotions betrayed him easily when he opened his mouth. Too often his mind wandered back to fine details.

He had returned, his steps slowing as he neared the darkened studio car. What if he was still there? What would he say, what could he say, what was there to still say? It wasn't his home anymore, but only a tarnished and dingy structure. He was terrified of it. The windows opened like mouths, the darkness ominous and brooding. And what if Jack was there... what if only Jack's body was there? He had contemplated in that moment leaving forever. Eventually though, for lack of a better option, he forced himself to enter... it was a nightmare. There was so much blood. He was sure that he would find a body tucked somewhere. And the hideous mirror was pieced together, everything else arranged to suggest nothing had happened, but that mirror. His sketchbooks piled by his cot just as they had been. It was all so perfectly placed like museum artifacts. It all felt foreign. It all felt tampered with and touched. But, there was no body, alive or dead. Bernardo had stood in the doorway, staring without growing attached. He stood for some time until it fearfully soaked in, and then he turned from the scene and wandered. Wandered far, always to come back to the studio car, aching for the home that he felt he had lost just to leave again. He did not sleep...

The fine details started to wear on him. There was an insanity brooding under his skin. After his hands lay idle, and after Jack had disappeared before he woke, he turned to desperation. He didn't want to think, to feel, to comprehend. Bernardo found comfort, found the nothingness he desired in a bottle. Never wine, not that there was any left after his bursts of destruction. Him and Maeve became ever closer. She was know to keep an impressive arsenal of alcohol, the kind from her green homeland that burned even the throats of sailors, and she was generous. The kind of drink that would knock a man flat. The kind that sent men to drunkenness and poverty on the streets of London... and she had it all. Bernardo never asked where she got it, for her fount seemed to always overflow. Absinthe, Irish whisky, rum, vodka... she held her liquor better than he did.

Bernardo had not washed, hadn't changed clothes for three days, and Jack was gone again. He didn't want to fix it. Why would he care to fix it? He wanted to die and leave him. He saw the pistol against his temple. No! Please no! The tailor blinked once, twice, trying to erase it but there was yelling in his head. Stop! You are killing me too. Anything to make it stop. Anything. The man had stood, stumbling out into the lights of the caravan and alighted his gaze on the lit tent of Maeve, her silhouette hazy and familiar. He swallowed heavily and made his way across the frosted grass. Just as in earlier days, his knuckles rapt on the wooden support. The minute her gaze fell on him, she had him inside.

"You look like s**t."
Bernardo had shrugged his shoulders, his eyes cast down, his glasses lost somewhere in the mess of his studio. His hands found his hips, finally looking up to her. "I need your medicine." She had paused, "...you stay in this tent, though... you hear me?" He shrugged and nodded slowly. Within a few minutes she had brought out a beautifully crafted bottle. He had taken it in his trembling fingers, turning it over and over. Did he want to do this? It wouldn't fix anything. But the weight came down on his shoulders suddenly, and it was easy to pull the cork from the neck. He drank deep, twitched as it hit his belly with a sick burning, and eagerly took another swig.
"Did you want to talk about it?"
"No." Bernardo muttered.

The tailor spent most of his time with Maeve, avoiding topics with an unspoken law between them, and their jovial laughter could sometimes be heard across the camp. Bernardo spent less time thinking... because Bernardo spent most of his time drunk. He was lulled into dead sleeps nursing the bottle and woke up just as drunk, hitting the liquor just as early as the previous day. Every so often, he would catch sight of Jack and fall back into a funk, but the lieutenant was present to usher him back with good stories and company. Her company was indispensable. She had a way of appealing to his better nature, and she was a master at dodging around the eggshells, of avoiding mention of his personal life. All the while, the troop pushed closer to France. Small settlements and towns were passed on the very outskirts of the country. Bernardo watched from the outside, catching brief glimpses of life in lighted windows, and his heart yearned for a life that he had once known. For weeks, he had neglected his livelihood, rejected everything but his own pacification. He found that he was vaguely ashamed of himself through the drunken stupor. When the caravan next settled nearby a larger town, the tailor sobered, washed, and lazily wandered into the marketplace. It was a gesture of morality, to prove to himself that a just man still existed underneath all of his decay. Oh, how it felt fake. He justified it over and over; how he would need fabric to still be of use in the caravan, how Jack couldn't take this from him... he was still the same man... yes... the same man... Besides, if there was ever a time to buy fabric, it would be in the intricate native tapestries. His scarf was pulled tight across his neck, spectacles still absent as he tried to blend into the small crowd. There was still a buzz in his head, surely impairing his judgement for he had not told Maeve of his escapade.

He was greeted as he entered the stall by the owner, his bolts of fabric draped from all posts, displaying vibrant and rich colors, fine embroidery, and Bernardo's hands were immediately on them. The tailor fought through the haze, picking apart thread-counts and dye-types, taking his time to judge the wares. A spark of the past glimmered in the corner of his mouth. He was still in very much in love. The marketplace around him bustled with bodies and voices, moving quickly while he stood suspended in his own fascination, so it took him a few minutes to realize he was being addressed.
"Oy..."
"Oy!"
"Hey! ...beast."
Bernardo turned. There were three of them with three wretched, crooked-fanged grins. Three velveteen, ruffle-laced vampire dandies tick-tocking with ever-increasing anticipation. The tailor slowly shifted his hands to his sides, swallowing with a, "Good evening." The grins shifted, snarling at him and advancing. One was obviously the leader, his blonde hair pulled back so tight, the corners of his eyes were stretched. He did the talking for the other two, "...you must have guts to show your face in this country." They were only boys, youth entitled to the chalice of immortality. Bernardo knew their kind in human form... and how much more dangerous their stupidity when strengthened with immunity to every scourge of man; to not die, to not age, to kill without repercussion... "I was just passing through, monsieur. I'm no soldier; you'll find no quarrel with me."
That was not good enough. "Doesn't matter what you are... you smell like a beast."
"I'm new to the country." This had been foolish. "I mean no offense." There were more eyes on him. "And I'm going to exit your territory now with empty hands."

As soon as he turned, they were on him. A hand caught the back of his coat, yanking him back into the dusty square and spinning him. One vampire's teeth gnashed at him, his breath was rank. They were so quick, and he was so slow, fighting through the fog and his own limitations, unable to get free before he was laid flat by a fist in his jaw. The pain seared up the back of his skull, through his nose. He was breathing in the dirt. He was on the ground... on the ground... Bernardo opened his mouth and caught two bloody molars in his palm. He stared at them, dazed, not able to comprehend anything but the ringing in his head and the sudden kick to his ribs, to his face. And with each struggle to rise, he was pushed down by what seemed hundreds of hands. He stopped trying to get up. Bernardo heard a voice by his ear, screaming, "Welcome to France!" The tailor turned his head, agonizingly, to look into the face of the smiling ringleader before one last knock to the temple and it all went black.

He awoke, surprised he was alive. Surprised he was still sprawled in the dirt, in his blood, in the now torn-down market. Someone would surely come, he thought, to finish him off. But as frantic as he was to get to his feet, the pain tore him back down. He patiently dragged himself out of the town, motivated by the determination to live, and it was a miracle, or a sick joke, that he made it back to Maeve's tent. His cheekbones, eye sockets, bloomed with bruises, his chin a river of dried blood, and he knew that one rib at least, was broken. She answered with a shocked gasp, and through his blurry vision, he swear he saw Jack stare back at him as he looked towards his own studio. He was pulled inside the tent too quickly to check, or care... Immediately, he tried to pull off his clothes, and finding it too much a chore, allowed Maeve to do it for him. She wiped the grime off of him slowly as he was propped up across from her. Neither spoke. Bernardo didn't know if he could. Hot tears ran down his cheeks, the salt stinging at his wounds, and she wiped those too. "...I'm sorry," he whimpered. Their eyes met, and she went back to hastily cleaning him. He only heard half of what she said, but the message was clear. He was not to allow himself to be caught off guard and alone again.

His answer came about a week later, when his bones were starting to mend and his color came back. Bernardo was forced back into his studio, finding his drinking companion gone and his partner vanished for the time. He sat at his desk, rolling a pencil across the top back and forth lethargically, until a knock at the door roused him with a clumsy start. Jack never knocked, and there hadn't been a customer while traveling. The tailor stumbled to the door, opened it to a face that he recognized, faintly... it was the man... the one that had covered him during the misfire blast in the big top. He pushed his hand through his hair, tucking his shirt in, embarrassed to have been caught in his own dysfunction. "Hello. Are you in business?" Bernardo recognized that Russian voice. Vilen.
"Yes... yes!" he exclaimed, flustered. "Please come in."
"I was hoping I could ask a favour of you." He stepped inside, moving like a soldier. He was a solider. "If you may recall... I had torn this here some weeks ago... but due to an incident later that same evening, there are a few other things that need to be repaired as well." Bernardo took the jacket that was handed to him, his fingers quickly trailed across the fabric, picking at the frayed hole in the coat. It would be easily repaired, and he was about to offer the service for free... but a small thought bubbled in the back of his mind. Thoughts of Jack because he just couldn't leave him the hell out of it for long, and the bruises across his cheekbones still stung. "I can repair this, and anything else you need, for an exchange of your services." Bernardo raised an eyebrow at him, searching his face, looking for the answer before he even spoke.
His scarred eyebrow rose in return, "My services? What have I to offer a tailor of your skill?" Vilen's attention, which had been trained on him, now moved to survey the studio. The brunette was sheepishly aware of the imperfections. But this man... there had been whisperings of him in the camps; how he was precise, a fighter with a certain integrity and Bernardo needed him. The tailor tucked the coat into his elbow and slowly replied, "I need you to teach me how to fight... specifically, fence." He stayed in his place as Vilen meandered about the room. "And I need it to be kept a secret. Practices every day, if possible, when it would draw the least attention." He paused. "It would be trade. Your services for mine."

Vilen's facial expressions moved between skepticism, to curiosity, to thinking deeply in a sense of hesitation. The tailor's form went rigid as the soldier circled him, inspecting him with his eyes, curiously and levelly. He was only being honest with himself. Bernardo's thin arms wrapped around the coat tighter because they both knew what he was seeing: a very frail, academic man who had no business in the army. Yet, here he was. He met Vilen's gaze and refused to back down in spirit. His pride had been wounded, he had once again been the victim of his own inexperience. He couldn't stop the beating, he couldn't stop Jack... Now, he was determined. If he had not the physicality, he would have the drive. What he lacked in brawn, he would make up for in calculated precision. "Fencing, of all things. I'm curious to know why... There are much better forms of combat that would bennefit you and your needs."
White hair flashed across his eyes, and his mind thought very quickly for an answer that did not concern Jack, even when it did. "It is a graceful and detailed sport, one that I have always admired, and I am a man that excels at the art of detail." He paused as Vilen traveled behind him, eyeing him up and down, before continuing, "I would loose in any fight that requires blunt force, but I could be taught to fight with my mind. To be quicker, to be cunning, to be surprising.... and I am a good student."
"I'll be the judge of that." he smirked, coming full circle in front of the tailor once more. Grinning, Vilen extended his hand. Oh, yes. Bernardo knew how this worked. Man to man, craft to craft, a deal was struck. He reached out enthusiastically and shook it like the businessman he had been taught to be. The soft swell of confidence in his breast was the first he had felt in many nights.

He no longer woke up drunk. Not after the first practice. Bernardo slipped out of the sheets, leaving behind Jack's slumbering body, maneuvering around the creaky floorboard and into the night without waking him. The tailor had heard him come in late, felt his body shake on the other side of the mattress. Even now, he couldn't bear to look at him. It was early. He made his way quickly to their practice spot outside of camp and stepped into the open plain. Vilen advanced. The tailor hadn't heard him approaching. A rapier was thrown in his direction, which he didn't catch. "Good evening to you too."
The other man smirked as Bernardo picked the sword off the ground as swiftly as he could, holding it away from his body. One hand? Two hands? He didn't know, honestly. He juggled it around, trying to find a way to look like he could manage it. Vilen shucked his coat and Bernardo did the same. "We will start with a few basic things before we move into form."
""I'm ready for your mentorship."

Bernardo easily allowed Vilen's touches to push him into place, into what he needed to be if he was going to understand, if he was going to excel. And he wanted to excel... he needed to excel. He could not be stuck in vampire territory without Jack and without his own means of defense, and he was currently lacking in both. Moreover, he would prove himself. He would prove his strength, his determination, his willingness to fight for what he felt he could not fight for now. Bernardo was determined to learn, to do and to become what he knew he would need to become. Every so often, their stares would catch each other, and the tailor would force himself to not lower his gaze in subordination. All the while, Vilen explained himself. Why he must tuck his elbow here, why it was important to balance on the inside of the foot there, and Bernardo took it all in. He was an intelligent man, a learned man, a man that had the benefit of education underneath him and he knew what it was to remember. He would lay in bed and mentally rework every scrap of advice that Vilen offered, and he would repeat until it was perfect. He wanted to be perfect. The key is to not force anything. Ever."
"I understand." "Your body is just as important in a fight as your mind. Remember that always," he continued. Bernardo nodded once at him, "Then I will use both."

Practices commenced every day. Bernardo was growing tired of sneaking, rather tiptoeing around Jack, but enjoyed his time practicing too much to let the guilt of avoiding him set in deep. It gave him a certain kind of drive, a purpose in this time of aimless wandering between broken loves and broken bottles. Practicing felt like the only productive respite from his own mind. It reminded him of putting his fingers to his tailoring, but even that had turned somewhat sour. Jack haunted him without being dead. It still felt like he was. Now as Vilen approached, he ran his fingers back through his hair, sweeping it from his sharp eyes. An excitement was bubbling up, a nervousness, for he didn't want to make a fool of himself. Vilen explained their objectives for the day, meeting his gaze with a determined stare, and he nodded in turn. "I'm ready."
His mentor brandished his weapon with a flourish, smooth as always and precise. "Let me see you start with the offensive. I'll correct you as we go."
Bernardo took the rapier in his hand, holding it in his grasp as Vilen had shown him, letting his wrist move along with the weight. He looked to it, and thought it rather dangerous. It was heavier than he remembered it, and he didn't know if that was his own mind or his forgetfulness. The other man turned then, taking a few calculated steps back. He moved as well, slightly to the side, aligning himself. And then it was lesson time. Vilen's eyes looked at him with a different attitude, one that was always critiquing and adjusting. The tailor hesitated for quite some time, looking at his weapon, shuffling around his feet before he finally looked up to his opponent. It was his turn to take careful steps forward, gently circling around Vilen before leading with his right foot. He thrust his wrist out, attempting a jab, only to find the sharp hit of metal upon metal. Bernardo cringed and froze. He didn't know what he expected, but while Vilen met his attack, it dawned upon him that he had foreseen it all along. He had known what was coming, and yet didn't know how to move or think or respond. Vilen didn't give him the time either. He pressed forward, leaving Bernardo to stumble back, catching his footing just in time to see the other man counter with a quick poke. The tailor barely moved his body out of the way, and suddenly he was approached again. A million thoughts all exploded to the back of his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening in front of him, how not to fail. He tried to separate them, but only found his contemplation becoming more and more tangled into mess upon mess... and finally, he could only allow himself to become blank. And yet the blankness was just as infuriating. Bernardo blocked Vilen's attack only once before tripping over himself. He fell back, wincing. His teacher stood above him, and immediately the tailor was up on his feet. "Again." he demanded.

With each day, he improved ever so slightly. Until he could no longer stand, he would take Vilen's instruction. And each correction stuck to the tailor. "Shoulders back. Strighten your wrist. Better. Push!" His eyes took on a glint, a sharp focus. Push. Bernardo understood that. Push against the opposition and the lonliness and the situation that he now found himself in back at camp. Push, for the love of everything under the burnt out sun, push! He pulled his shoulders back fiercely, planted himself deep and as Vilen clashed blades with him, intending to push him back into the trees, he stood in place. Sweat formed on his brow, his wrist threatened to give out, and he barely turned out of the way, back into the clearing. The Russian laughed in a victory, "Yes!" Vilen nodded, dropping the stance and approaching him to place a hand on his shoulder, "Very good! That is what I need from you. You're finding it." he squeezed his shoulder firmly and then backed away, "Again. Come on." he teased. Bernardo smiled.


✄ ------


He couldn't escape forever. Yes, he could rise quietly in the morning, avoid his studio for as long as practice continued, find Maeve and his liquor afterwards. Yes, he could drink and fight, anything but confront the mess. Jack's face was always stained with tears. He was as cold and numb, and the day where they would have to acknowledge each other was inevitable. Each day, they tried to prolong it just one more sleepless night. Maeve was a better friend than most. She had enough sense to bring the train screeching to a halt. So when Bernardo entered her tent and saw Jack sitting across from her on the cushions, when his head swiveled, and they finally made contact, part of him knew this day had been coming. He stood, torn between turning to leave and the yearning for peace. Peace, peace at last. He had loved this man.

The tailor cautiously took a seat next to Jack, and they all sat in silence. Bernardo gazed to their host, his brows furrowed at her. The vampire fidgeted next to him. "The strongest thing you have..." he said clearly. "This is not different than before."

[Pax Britannica]

The woods were dark, and silent, save for the soft rustling of the rabbit she hunted. Mercia counted its breaths, measuring her own, and then moved like lightning. Her hand flashed down to snap the creature’s neck in a painless instant. There was no purpose in causing agony to an innocent being killed for food. A wicked one, now that was another story.

The Leech King had been brazen with his eyes, in a way that made her crave something. Something bloody, but not in her accustomed way. Had she known that he was eavesdropping on her lesson to Vilen? Yes, she had. Had it influenced the flavor of the beast’s punishment? Perhaps.

Or maybe Mercia just liked blood. It was probably that. Probably.

A branch cracked behind her and the Jackal spun, dropping the half-skinned rabbit from bloody hands. But it was Vilen who emerged from the trees, and she had sensed him coming even in her distracted state. Why he was there, she was less sure. She had given him no invitation to follow, and no suggestion that his presence was welcome in her company. He had been wrong to forsake the task she had set for him, and he would be a very long time in earning her forgiveness. But the words he spoke to her as she stood in the moonlight were not a plea for mercy, but a declaration. She tilted her head to the side in one of those powerfully feral movements that betrayed how absolutely ancient and animal she truly was, and puzzled at Vilen’s misguided intent.

He stepped closer, and closer still, and she could not contest that he was an exemplar of their species, masculine and powerful, and that he would make an excellent father to many young pups. Which was precisely why she had left him behind. She was a mother already to all of her kin, it had never truly crossed her mind to have pups of her own, that was not her role. Vilen was behaving most foolishly, and wasting his potential. But he did not seem to see it like that.

Instead, with a few more words, he stepped closer once more and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her in close, and dipping his head to capture her lips. Mercia blinked once in surprise, unresponsive against her fellow were beast, as his mouth moved hungrily over hers, desperate, begging. Begging for what? What did he want from her?

Not that she could say the experience was entirely foreign, as Vilen’s hand slid into her hair, cupping the base of her skull, the pressure of his mouth intensifying. He clearly meant her no harm, the only reason he still drew breath, but she was, for once in her eternal life, unsure of what to do. Kestrel had kissed her once, more than once, a lifetime ago in New Londontown. It had been like this, but the Leech King had not asked or begged, he had demanded and stolen. Vilen’s mouth tasted like desperation, when Kestrel’s kisses had tasted like … something else. Something like fate, whispered an unheeded voice. Vilen’s mouth was not at all unpleasant, but Mercia knew little and less of passion that did not involve bloodletting.

She had not really had time to determine if she should push Vilen away or allow him to continue, when suddenly the other man was gone, and the small circle of trees suddenly felt far smaller for the new presence. Kestrel again, interrupting as always. He followed her like a plague, even from beyond the grave. The Jackal watched, bemused, as the two men fought back and forth, but capable as he was in single combat, Vilen was little match for the reborn abomination that was the vampire king. Still, no matter his transgressions, Vilen was one of her people, and he could still bring valuable new werebeasts into the world. She could not afford his loss, and certainly not to Kestrel.

With the speed that was her greatest strength, the Midnight Jackal was there in an instant, catching the vampire’s foolish, foppish blade against the soft meat of her palm and casting it away, curling her lush lips in animal warning. “So you defend him?” Mockery, he was always mocking. ”But my lady, I was only trying to defend your honor.” As if the treacherous, whoring leech knew anything about honor. ”You do not fight my battles, Leech.” She tasted blood, where Vilen’s teeth had caught her lips before he was wrenched away, and cleaned her lip in a quick, efficient sweep of her tongue.

The motion, or the blood, caught Kestrel’s attention, and his gaze fell to her mouth, and somehow she sensed that he too was thinking of a kiss he’d stolen from her, the same gesture somehow filled with so much more fire than what Vilen’s had a moment ago … He called her princess again, and her eyes flashed as he’d known they would. ”I would see you bound and chained in my dungeon, monster,” she found herself whispering in that malt whiskey voice, tasting a dark thrill at the thought of his muscled marble body at her bloody mercy. For what exactly, she wasn’t quite sure. Some manner of torture for his sins.

Before the leech could reply, Vilen rose up behind him, and with a sound thump, the vampire king collapsed where he stood, leaving a smear of blood on the rock Vilen held. The beast’s eyes were wild with hate, and he would have killed Kestrel then and there without regret or fear of the consequences. And why shouldn’t he? But Mercy shook her head once at the unasked question. She did not want him dead just yet.

Was unwilling the break the peace just yet. Or so she justified it. Vilen’s eyes were filled with furious questions, but the Midnight Jackal was not in the habit of explaining herself. Without another word, she turned away into the dark forest, knowing with the surety of an alpha that her subject would follow, leaving the King of Leeches to sleep with the worms.

The remainder of the journey to Paris passed uneventfully. So much so, in fact, that it had begun to press upon her. Vilen had not approached her since she had left him silently that night, and if he had been near he had done nothing to attract her notice. Kestrel was remarkably absent. She had grown almost accustomed to his constant appearances where he was least wanted, and once or twice caught herself expecting him to turn up with his wastrel smile and suffocating arrogance. Nor did he haunt her dreams any longer, the Laughing King of her nightmares who perched upon his throne of skulls and whispered into her silent mind.

Not since his return to the land of the living had she heard that wicked voice that had plagued her for months, and never had she felt stronger than she had after the illness that had taken her on the voyage.

Yet somehow with his very absence he haunted her as well, and she began to find it … irksome, that he seemed to have lost interest in her, she who was his eternal enemy. He had been far from disinterested when he had revealed himself on the beach and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh to feast from her femoral artery. That was an unforgivable trespass, for which she still required her metaphorical – or literal - pound of flesh. Mercia had begun to think it was long past time to have the vampire at her mercy, that she may collect her price for his many insults against her. Why that thought involved his death less and less often, while it involved the nudity of his masculine form with increasing frequency, she could not say.

Their arrival in Paris, however, proved to be an ample distraction. The Midnight Jackal, and all the beasts, could smell the undead reek of the city from miles away, and their side of the caravan grew silent, as tensions between the vampires and beasts were reignited. When they reached the city limits, Mercia permitted her soldiers to enter only because she wished for the chance to seek out any lingering survivors of the vampire plague. Kestrel yet again had vanished somewhere when she sought out the vampire leaders, but his twin remained with their subjects, the Red Queen whose violet eyes were ever more feral every time the Jackal saw her. The dangerous woman who looked at her with barely hidden hunger was coming undone by her demons, as those who chained their demons too tightly often were. The Jackal remembered Jonathan, and wondered, briefly, if it would fall to her to end the Red Death, or if it would be her brother. But the vampiress was not yet destroyed, and she acknowledged that the beasts would be safest, and hence the treaty would be safest, if the two parties went their separate ways. The two queens, red and gold, gave their orders, and the ancient rivals split apart once more.

It took Mercia only hours to peruse the entirety of the city and deem that there was no pocket that had survived the infestation. Noora offered that the twisting catacombs beneath the city might offer some sanctuary, but to ensure they were not even more lawless and dangerous than the streets above would take time. The city breathed with death. The blood stink of vampires saturated the air. It was there in the looks, the hurried, frenzied eyes of the humans who knew - in that way cattle knew - they were no more than food. An unearthly feeling sank into her bones, and as they made their way into the city, her presence, and that of her beasts, sent vampires skittering.

Paris. She had little cause to come to this city, and had always found the utter flamboyancy...too much. Too elaborate for her brutish, bloody tastes which ran far more toward the violent and less toward frills and gilt satins. The stench of rotting vampire was everywhere and she felt the urge to retch. Everywhere there were eyes on her. On her beasts, but for some strange reason, especially on her. She had little cause to wonder. She was The Midnight Jackal, like the Reaper come to call in the most densely populated vampire capitol in Europe.

They were right to marvel and fear her. The gloriously golden-haired, elfin-featured Jackal wore a smile on her pretty lips too malicious to be as beautiful as her delicate features suggested. Her claws ached to sink into vampire meat. Again. Her thoughts turned to Kestrel. Again. She pushed them away.

She had to take steps until then to make sure that she did not lose a single one of her people to this cursed city. So the Jackal gathered her people at the edge of a forest, some miles outside of the city limits, and there issued her commands. ”Paris is devoured. The entire city is vampire. It will be unsafe for us, so no beast may move alone. All must have a partner, and all must report regularly to my general.“ The level rasp of her husky voice carried more force than any shout, and she nodded her golden head toward Noora.

”Seek out weaknesses among them, and any whisper of our kin here. I wish to know any important information immediately. Do not rest within the city limits if you can help it. And lastly, do not break our peace, unless they should break it first. In that case, defend yourselves.”

She licked her lips. ”And bring them to me alive.”

[Hamletmaschine]

Noora stumbled back to the encampment after the fight outside the tavern. With the help of Maeve, many of their people had returned safely. But word of what had transpired shook the core of their traveling façade, and many began to prepare to head out immediately.
It had begun to sink in before she left the village outskirts that the mace she had been hit with, by the behemoth, was laced with poison. Her wounds still had not healed, blood continuing to seep down her arm as the infections spread through to her brain. The more her body tried to heal, the foggier she became. She snarled as she waved away the invisible fog before her eyes as she tried to walk. Her senses displaced, she barely felt the hand of a familiar friend upon her shoulder. Thick Russian in her ear echoed for her to stop, and she tried to find the source of her comrade in the haze. All that was clear when she turned towards him was the yellow of his eyes in the darkness, and the hot taste of blood that touched her tongue. She didn’t recall him opening her mouth, but his blood ran swiftly to fill her mouth, coat her gums and slide down her throat. It had been so long since she had tasted this…
When the blood stopped, her brows furrowed, still blind to the world around her, “Vilen.”
“Êtes-vous d'accord?”
“Ambush.” She slurred softly, her eyes closing to darkness.
“I know.” he purred into her ear, scooping her in to his arms as she passed out against his chest.

When the General awoke, they had begun their final expedition in to France.



Noora spent considerable time between several of her associates as they approached their destination. The seed planted in her mind by Ataraxia, in the tavern of that small village, began to fester. She presented the idea to Maeve first.
As the two created an action plan, for getting Mercia to agree to the concept of tearing down the uprising of the Leech King, she did, inevitably, have to present the idea to Vilen as well. Whatever had transpired between her Russian cohort and the Jackal had not been spoken of between them, and much of it eluded her, but what Noora did know was that he was not happy with the results. When she had presented the concept of their intentions, Vilen had argued, sulked, and even sat silent in anger. Over the course of a few days, he had come around less to the idea of subjecting the Queen of Beasts to scantly clad seductions beyond her comprehension, and more to the idea of seeing Kestrel squirm, and with insatiable passion. That alone caused a peek of interest to his intentions. She made notes to converse with him further…

Now, Paris.
The city of love. The city of lights. Of aristocrats, design, language, art, intellect. The city that took her in as a child and wrapped it’s soot around her ivory limbs to create the woman she had become. The woman who started an underground empire for mortals and immortals alike. Weapon creation, mass manufacturing. Jobs… war. Paris was her home. She had been gone so long… So long, her city had forgotten her. Forgotten the power it held within its stones and mortar. Forgotten its brutality to conquer and demand. Forgotten its people. Paris had been beautiful once, a country capable of conquests, before the epidemic of ticking hearts invaded, causing the skies to rain blood through their streets. Crimson that slithered and caked over the cracks of a breaking foundation. The beasts she knew here, her underground—destroyed. Her connections here hid in the gutters, under the filth of the dead and dying mortals.
If she were capable of it, she would have shed a tear for France. To this General, however, the only grievance she could give was fueled by seething pain that awoke the wolf that coursed under human flesh, and Paris was not worth that.

Noora walked the streets of her city in shadow, from the rooftops to the slums. She trudged through the sickness that had come with the infestations and dead. Rats were rampant, chewing the skin of the corpses left to decompose in the streets. Her alleys were dumps for coroner’s inquests that would never be reached. They all knew now that if you weren’t to be killed by a metal fang, the plague would take you first. It happened in London, and with the decay of Paris, it was happening here.
She travelled deeper, down into the underbelly of the city, to the sewers, to the underground city she had built. Now it housed desperate mortals trying to survive, too weak to revolt, too poor to be worth the time of some vampire’s power. And perhaps even too tasteless for vampires to bother with the blood. What did they care for them anyways? Why not let them rot like maggots in the ground?
Her stomach only churned.

That night, Noora returned to the encampment to provide a report to her Queen, and it took all of her willpower not to breakdown Kestrel’s door and demand his head on a platter.
She was not let off the hook so easily either, scolded for going in alone. Upon this news to Mercia, the Queen took her own venture in to the depths of the city center, to explore what France’s finest had to offer them. True to her General’s word, Mercia found no sign of beasts, and little security of safety in any part of the streets. In Noora’s old underground, there was perhaps a chance of survival, but the forest outskirts, away from the vampires, was safest in the off chance of an ambushed attack from rogues… at least they could run and hide. The underground would leave them trapped, no surviving. Perfect for a massacre.

With the direction of the Jackal, the beasts left the Paris to the undead, and kept to the safety of space between them, ”Paris is devoured. The entire city is vampire. It will be unsafe for us, so no beast may move alone. All must have a partner, and all must report regularly to my general. Seek out weaknesses among them, and any whisper of our kin here. I wish to know any important information immediately. Do not rest within the city limits if you can help it. And lastly, do not break our peace, unless they should break it first. In that case, defend yourselves.”
The General had a hard time coming to terms with needing a partner in which to travel with. Looking over her soldiers, she asked Maeve to partner with the tailor after his altercation and lucky survival of a vampire attack. Vilen reported he was assisting in building his defenses, and any others who asked of it.
With one of her avian members on the ground, she took to putting the two Russians together as scouts for their camp. It would keep Vilen’s strange behavior in line, and the thief out of trouble. In the end, that left her rather alone. She liked it better that way. And despite herself knowing Mercia could handle her own, in a city like what Paris had become, she did not trust the Jackal alone on the foreign streets. Little changed in layout since Noora’s leave, she knew the city with her eyes closed, by touch, by smell. Every time Mercia ventured out, Noora shadowed. It would land her in trouble eventually, but she would not have the Queen’s life endangered on her watch.

This night, she followed another. One of slender form and red of hair. She wrapped the shadows around herself as the Vampiress fought with a hunger, killed, fed, bled the worthless ones. She was intriguing to watch. Her movements were swift, skilled and graceful. Her wires were nearly invisible in the darkness, too fast to catch with the eye. This silent moment allowed Noora to observe the Red Death as a predator would another predator. It allowed her to relate… It allowed her to empathize in some strange subtlety. It chilled her, and only accepted her observing until it was appropriate to either leave, or approach the woman. She chose the latter.

“If only they were all that easy.” She announced her presence to the Queen, stepping out of the shadows. The Queen was satisfied, but a new hunger had brightened her eyes, a realization that perhaps blood was what she needed more than she realized. Everyone knew the woman was strange to the subject, even herself. In this moment, it seemed perhaps Ataraxia was having a change of heart, albeit small.
Noora crossed her arms and pursed her lips slightly, “Are we ready to implement our agreement? Paris is much more over-run than I believe either of us had anticipated. The risk in this is high. I need more guarantee that our protection in this endeavour will suffice.”

[Phoenix Skyy]

A steady, rolling beat danced over wood. The drumming came in periods of a four over four count; the instrument was the clacking of nails. The platinum blonde reclined decisively back in her chair with her free hand holding her head as her elbow kept it perched up. The typically deep emerald of her eyes echoed only in the ring around her pupils as the rest of her irises were piercingly blue, a trick attributed more to her act, but she felt it would serve a purpose here, too. She needed everything up her sleeve to be as intimidating as possible, to force the truths into the minds of the men who would soon be her company.

It was late, she had been considering calling it an evening and curling into the covers of the sheets of her cot. Strolling through the darkness, she paid it no heed. In all her years she had never been so sure of herself, of her strengths. The tank had been delivered to Mercia’s doorstep with a short note explaining that should her tale be a necessary addition to the others’ for the night’s events, she was happy to answer the call. The metaphorical notch in her belt weighed heavily on her hips as they gave way to the steady sashay on her path. The closer she got to the caravans, she could smell blood, thick and sickening. Never before had the stench made her want to be sick in such a way. Following it down the trail, she happened on the body. The sheer size of the mass was all too recognizable. The blood’s scent registered in her memory and in silence she prayed she was wrong. Getting down on one knee, she turned the ice cold corpse over. Stifling a scream, Maeve choked on her utter shock before standing to seek out Noora and announce the discovery of Ambrose’s dead body.

Jack was the first to arrive and settle in. She watched him in silence as his gaze wandered about the tent before settling on her. His eyes weighed her worth to his person, judged her based on limited perceptions and experiences, and she, a husk of what once was, did not care. Before, she would have glared at him, chastised the vampire for even making assumptions of her worth, and then explain that as a leech he was lesser than the dirt sticking to her boots. Many things had worn her down in the previous weeks since Ambrose’s death. Her fingers stopped drumming long enough to lift a bottle and pour him a glass of brandy. She pushed it towards him mechanically.

The days that followed still pressed the air out of chest at the recollection. She simply could not cry, the pain that had been building since the massacre strangled her. There was nothing she could give to anything besides the whole of herself to her work. Noora could sense her mourning and lightened her workload. It did nothing to assuage the Raven’s suffering. When her work was doubled, Maeve’s mind was steadily preoccupied long enough to remove herself from the emotions plaguing her. However, sleep gave way to the darkening corners of mind where the dead beasts hid themselves. Nightmares would cause her to wake in a cold sweat on the cot within the train she shared with shark brute. At those times she’d clean herself with a dry cloth, wrap herself in her blankets, and consider laying in his bed. She had stolen a tooth from his corpse, a token of the memory of her friend and mentor. Anything more would be selfish was the thought that would bring her feet back into her own bed and eventually she would sleep.

It did not help that Vilen was a constant nuisance. She could only handle him in small periods of time, and when she did have him around the silence she provided was cold and uninviting, her words were callous and flat. Before long such actions led to a fight she had not intended to get into with him. Even her stance had been accusatory and prepped to lurch forward in attack. It had been sometime since she had felt like a cornered animal, but she had no problem causing the newcomer pain if he so desired it. After the fight she had resolved to remain neutral towards him. It was better than the cold shoulder in her opinion, but even she could sense something irking him about it.

Bernardo was perhaps the most welcome of constants in her life. Every night there was alcohol, there was booze, there was comfortable silence that was shared over the topics that they refused to acknowledge. She couldn’t complain and didn’t. There was plenty she chose not to speak on. Even when there was a need so great to speak on the subject, silence was the better of options. Instead, other subjects brought smiles to their faces to hide the shames that made it so difficult to last the eternal nights to which all the world was accustomed. In her tent was an immortal fount of alcoholic selections they both enjoyed, and the tent is where they both would stay when the drinking was over.

Soon after the arrival in Paris, Bernardo was attacked in the streets by local vampires. The opinion was unanimous: he was lucky to be alive. Orders were put out to the werebeasts that none should be in the confines of the city alone, and she was appointed to Bernardo’s side. There was a change in his person after the attack, a hunger filled the beast she was surprised to bear witness to. The drinking ended. Training began. Vilen was around more and more in the tailor’s presence and she looked to her duties far more steadily when they were engaged in training.

The once meek tailor opened the curtain to her tent and peered inside. She wasn’t surprised by the expressions contorting his face. It was clear that he was tempted by the possibility to flee from the vampire before them both, but instead he stayed and requested one of her strongest selections. With a nod to him she poured another glass of brandy, only a shot or two, and shoved it towards where she desired he sit: directly beside Jack. Her eyes scanned over them both, taking in the scene of the two clearly opposed to being beside one another and yet... there was something beneath the surface that spoke in whispers that it was difficult to be without. Closing her eyes, Maeve chuckled softly as the corner of her lips pulled upward into a smirk. So... her assumptions were quite possibly right. Something was amiss between these two that went beyond the realm of friendship. Something threatened the fabric of such a relationship. Opening her eyes again as they shifted back into their welcoming emerald gaze she sighed softly.

“You two need to settle things once and for all,” she said. Raising a hand to dissuade either from speaking out of turn, she continued. “ I’m not aware of what you two have been through that has ripped you apart, but I recommend it be fixed. There are more important matters at risk here than some so-called ‘lovers’ quarrel’.”

Something piqued their interests at the term. “Quite.... I have my suspicions, but neither of you need confirm or deny. To be plain, I can honestly care less as to the status of your relationship. Whatever happened to you both, it can be sorted out later. What needs to be said is what has come to pass came to pass. There is no changing the course of Fate. Take the obstacles as you may, but you’re stronger together. The issue is for you both to discuss later, soberly and rationally. To reiterate, there are more pressing matters.”

In a gentle motion, Maeve took Jack’s hand into her own and flipped it over to peer over it. He appeared eager to jerk his hand away and tell her off. “Silence, boy. You’re in the tent of a fortune teller and I’ll do my job as such, even if I am off the clock. You’re not likely to tell me about yourself, so your palm will do the job.” Her gaze bore into his for a thoughtful moment. She considered whether or not he was challenging her for the sake of it or if he even recognized his attitude as an outright challenge. She remembered the fight between he and....

She dropped the memory and let her eyes drift downward to his palm. In her mind she listed out the details that she had learned from the books the previous owner had left behind. “Your heart line here, it says you’re selfish in love and your heart is broken easy. You’ve experienced emotional trauma and depression because of it,” she said flatly looking up at him. His expression wasn’t favorable and she heaved a sigh at him. “Your palm speaks of what it has endured in the past year; these are the decisions and feelings you’ve had since then. You need to hear it plain as night.” Her finger traced over the middle line of his palm, the head line, while she examined it. Multiple crosses on a short, broken line. “You’ve taken a preference to achievements you’ve made physically than the mental ones, and there have been inconsistencies in your thoughts, probably where these momentous decisions have come into play. You’ve had a sudden change in your lifestyle according to your life line; welcome to the war, we all have. Interestingly enough you’ve been manipulated by others. I advise you seek council cautiously.” She paused, a smirk playing at the edge of her lips. “Perhaps even mine, but I’ll tell you things as they are, Mr. Fletcher, as soon as I’m done here. Ah, see, a deep fate line; Fate determines most of your life, but its trying to tell you you’re at a point when your interests should come after those of others. Ironic that even your palm thinks you’re selfish. You’re a water hand, just like Bernardo over there, but you’re deeply rooted into it where his is nearly like an air hand, too.” In her palm she folded his hand into itself for a moment as she observed the mounts of the palm. Her fingers pressed against the fleshy bits of his hand to determine how expressive they were. “I’ll make this part short and sweet. You’ve a need for instant gratification, you lack self-confidence, you’re prone to depression, you’re stubborn and cynical at times, but you’re neither shy nor talkative. You’re good at keeping secrets, according to these long nails of yours, but vampires tend to have long nails.”

Dropping his hand, Maeve sat back again. Her eyes closed as she considered the man before her. The hand could only tell her so much, but there was enough to confirm what she already assumed. He walked like tragedy, his eyes seemed to be in an eternal droop.... He wasn’t cut out for war. Neither of these men would last much longer if they continued beyond Paris. Beyond this city was New Londontown and the promise of war, not just between the races, but with the Templars. Enough blood was shed to those she had made strong bonds with, and she would not see Bernardo perish in the flames of war, too. “Take heed, both of you,” Maeve warned, her voice dropping an octave for emphasis, “After this hiatus in Paris, while the regents plan to move back to England, war will run rampant and consume anyone unprepared. This includes you both. You’ve only survived so long because you remained outside of it. You remained anonymous to the gods and goddesses of our world. This will not be the case upon the return to New Londontown. You will be called upon, you will be cast against one another, and you will be slaughtered if you refuse.” Her heart strangled the breath trying so valiantly to climb down her throat. The void in her chest weighed her down and made her sick. How desperately she desired to fly and escape this. What was she doing warning them of a future they were already aware of? “Run.” The word eased out slippery and jaded, and her eyes opened. “Run away, never look back, never return. The world you knew before the massacre is dead and gone; nothing will be the same. Escape anywhere you both can find peace. If you stay, I cannot protect you the way I want to. The best I can do is by telling you to run and pray you both listen.” She corked the bottle of brandy on the table. “You’re welcome to stay in the tent and make your decisions. Regardless, both of you need to get over what troubles you individually and come to terms of what will come to pass if you are together. I have other matters to tend to. The work of a lieutenant is never over.”

She stood, nodded to them both, and pushed the curtain of the tent out of her way to leave them. The air outside nipped at her skin while the cool blast to her lungs began to settle her nerves. Why did she care so much about them when she felt as if she cared so little about all else? Perhaps this what was left of her humanity, the loyalty she felt to the young pup in the tent telling her to save him if she could, and his friend. The label didn’t seem right for Jack Fletcher, there was clearly more to it than met the eye, but if they didn’t want to come forward with the truth, she was better off unaware. Her legs began to lead her else where, somewhere far from the tent. Her eyes scanned over the camp grounds, but they were not satisfied with the meager surveillance. In the unsettling stillness, she shifted. Plumage broke over skin and her bones cracked and bent to better suit her aerial form. The bones of her skull broke through her skin as it formed the blackened beak prepared to tear away flesh from bone. Maeve fluffed out her feathers before a great shiver ran down the course of her spine. In this form, she thought while she lifted her great expanse of wings in preparation for take off, I can also escape what plagues me. Even if it’s only for a moment.

With one giant flap, the ground was far below her and the moon and stars above all she could see. They dazzled her, and the bestial side longed to steal their shining temptation. In mid-flap she changed her course, moving so that she survey high above the camp and simply miles away see the lights of the city. She’d never go so far, even transformed, but it was best to be sure there were no problems in the camp. For a few minutes she glided through the air, the black orbs searching the premises for signs of danger or misconduct, but found nothing.

They were on that beach, far and away. He spoke to her of sharing his homeland with her, he welcomed her to it. She had made the foolish attempt to do the same should the day come she ever return to Ireland. After making it to the mainland of Spain, seeing each other was a rare commodity, and they hadn’t made it far before he had turned up dead. She refused to investigate. If she had, someone would’ve disappeared, regardless of it would’ve been the so-called murderer or herself. Instead, his memory along with countless others etched fresh wounds across the space of her mind.

And now... it became alarmingly present during her flight. There was much she couldn’t ignore or escape. Her pent up pain and frustration; her depression and anger. If she kept up the way she was....

Maeve took the opportunity to descend a mile away from the camp in the safety of the forest, empty and secluded of others. Shifting back into her human form, she paced between towering oaks. She nibbled on her bottom lip while she tried focusing on anything else. Coming to a halt, she took a deep breath in. Swallowing down her sorrow, her hands tightened while she tried to keep herself together. There was too much going on inside her mind. Faces snuck up on her that had long been dead. Months had passed and she thought that she had left them behind. Death was common in their world; she had made her amends with it long ago when she was still a youngling. However, she never made real connections with anyone before now. She had even lived separated from the werebeast nest in an apartment she could call her own. Of course she had friends that had passed in the slaughter, but she had bid them farewell.

Hadn’t she?

“WELL? HAVEN’T I?” she called out suddenly before punching the tree beside her.

The bark bent and broke beneath the attack, and a dent formed in the wood. Drawing her hand back she inspected it as splinters were pushed out of her skin. Something within surged and convulsed. Gritting her teeth, she punched it again. And again. And again. And again. Every face Death taunted her with whom had been left for dead, she attacked the tree. After a series of hits, the tree went down. Careus’s face played in her mind. How much she despised the Coyete in the beginning echoed through her. Memories of nights spent on the ship together played before her eyes, the warmth of the young woman beside her in bed, and curling beside her out of sisterly affection. She began her assault on the surrounding forest, as if the trees were to blame. As if it were in their nature to have caused her misery and doubt, she planted the idea into her mind that these were her enemies and by destroying them she would endure. Her legs slammed across a birch in a round house kick, bending it in half. Turning back around she wailed on it in punches and jabs until it fell with an echoing crack. Finally, Ambrose. Looking across the small clearing she had created, his ghost walked across. Even then he was menacing and alluring all at once to her. It turned to her and grinned, taunting her that she wasn’t living up to the potential he had developed her to. “Why did you have to go and die?” she asked beneath her breath as the illusion faded. She rushed forward and leapt over the expanse of the clearing. Twisting her body, she bolley kicked an oak tree into submission, sending shards of debris through the air. Running up the expanse of the falling tree, she rode it down, kicking the top off and into the side of another. As it crashed to the floor, Maeve turned to nearby trunk and slammed her fists into it, shredding it until her hip pulled her leg over into a round house. Trees continued to fall in the course of destruction the Daughter of Morrigan trailed around her.

Hunched over one of the fallen trunks, she continued to terrorize a birch as her knuckles hammered into the lumber. Drops of blood ran over her face from scratches of flying debris. Her arms in legs were riddled with sticky blood-infused sap. When her fist crashed through the remaining inches of wood to the cold, damp forest floor below, the blonde ceased. In slow, movements, she pulled herself up and looked over her hands. They healed while blood coursed over her knuckles, raw from the destruction she had created. Her eyes lifted to bear witness to the ten foot wide wood-strewn clearing she had created.

A short intake of breath, and she could feel them, warm and sticky, running over her cheeks and down her neck. She hadn’t realized that her face was nearly sopping with tears that had started in the heat of the moment. Now that she was aware, she couldn’t stop. It burned as the streaked over her pale façade. Her lungs ached as for a moment she cried out, the sound deep and hollow like the screech of a raven.

Arms, heavy, but strong, wrapped around her. For a fleeting instance, it was as if he had come back from the dead. Her eyes shut, clamped down in an effort to stop her inner water works, and she wanted to apologize for ever thinking that he could’ve left the world of the living. She smiled, selfish in the hope that it wasn’t just her imagination causing another illusion. As she drew in the breath, the scent of the Russian wolf lingered. Even as the scent of fresh cut wood drifted on the air, his was foreign and seemed more solidly connect to the earth itself. “Vilen.” Maeve almost regretted saying his name. It was like she was admitting a dark truth to the world, breaking a vow of silence that she had sworn to the departed she had come to finish mourning, or confessing to herself that he wasn’t the one she wanted beside her again direly. She resisted his hold, struggled against it, but he held her firm. Maeve couldn’t deny the weakness she felt after the great burst of energy that she had put the effort into while she destroyed the forest, but she was blatantly embarrassed by it now. How hadn’t she sensed him there, among the trees? Was she so blinded by her pursuit that she had blocked everything out? No... there were sounds among the falling timber that she had mistaken for creatures of the woodland that she could now attribute to him. Struggling more, she truly wished to tear him limb from limb, and flee into the sky above.

[Hamletmaschine]

XXXX
Jack's hands wrung, hard, like he were attempting to drip the blood from his strained veins. Those trails under his pale, translucent flesh were not saturated. He had not fed in some time. It came from the depression. It was not by choice. He did not hunger, and he knew not what was more valuable to his body-- blood or affection.
He waited for Bernardo, for the one that his somber mind demanded comfort from. He had not come to this meeting willingly, but Maeve had been the tailor's confidant in Jack's place for these weeks since that night, and by God did his mind, his emotions, run rampant in turmoil to know just what was so much better here than trying to figure it all out together. And, truthfully, he did want it to all just end... So he came. To see Maeve, to face Bernardo, to lay himself bare so he could come clean.

The Lieutenant sat silently, pouring Jack a glass of dark amber liquid, the kind that would burn his parched lips, lather his tongue in sinful words, would spin his eyes back and have him more foolish than he could have ever been. His darkened eyes observed it with thoughtless intent, because getting lost in the silence of it was easier than looking into Maeve's disapproving eyes and knowing he had done a terrible wrong to her people. In her tent, he was a guest. In her company, he was the enemy, only here because Bernardo was worth the patience. He had no power here, of any kind, and he was by their rules.
When a rustling behind him tore his eyes away to the doorway, the tailor's body barely inside before his eyes narrowed behind his glasses to glare at Maeve; and not look at Jack longer than to recognize who it was under the visage of a broken, starved monster, his heart thundered in his ears. The organ choked his throat, and even when Bernardo fully entered and sat himself down next to the vampire, Jack shuddered to the cold that radiated off of the man. His heart, only then, returned to it's place, dormant in his chest, and his eyes returned to the table with thinning lips.
Nothing but hate for me. Nothing but a nuisance to be here.
The beast demanded liquor, and the woman provided it, which he drank heartily, and she refilled it only once more, then left the bottle. Jack's eyes narrowed slowly as he watched through his lashes, his molars grinding together, and his nails digging in to his palms.
Is this your vice now?
The man next to him didn't even spare him a glance, he just sat, waiting, hating every bloody minute of this intervention. Every second Jack knew it, he did too.

Meave began to speak, telling them both that the nature of this 'fight', if that was what it was, needed to end. Immediately, and indefinitely. She made it clear that she had not been told what it was that had happened, and Jack's features began to smooth ever so slightly, his lips pursing, eyes glazing as flashes of it all began to frost over his vision. The blood, the haunting, crying. The gun. The shouting. The door. The unending forest for miles and miles...
"There are more important matters at risk here than some so-called ‘lovers’ quarrel’.”
Jack snapped back to the warm, candle-lit tent, his eyes snapping up as he stiffened, to stare into Maeve's own eyes, suddenly quite clearly. His lips parted slightly, to deny. Did Bernardo tell her? It was to be a secret... They weren't safe anymore! Was this a trap to kill him? Was Bernardo just a witness to Maeve's slaughtering him, or was the once beautiful lover in this too? Would he finally put that bullet where it belonged?
Jack's breath halted, and he glanced gingerly to the man next to him, but nothing met his glance.
"I have my suspicions, but neither of you need confirm or deny. To be plain, I can honestly care less as to the status of your relationship. Whatever happened to you both, it can be sorted out later. What needs to be said is what has come to pass, came to pass. There is no changing the course of Fate. Take the obstacles as you may, but you’re stronger together. The issue is for you both to discuss later, soberly and rationally. To reiterate, there are more pressing matters.”
The vampire's attention fell back to Maeve's in disbelief. What was happening in this room? Was he even present? He shuddered as she reached forward and grasped his hand, his arm attempting to recoil, but her grip was like the jaw of a lion, anchoring him to the table, “Silence, boy. You’re in the tent of a fortuneteller and I’ll do my job as such, even if I am off the clock. You’re not likely to tell me about yourself, so your palm will do the job.”

Jack's brows furrowed, his body slowly releasing the tension as she flipped his hand, palm upward, and her fingertips traced over the skin. His silence, Bernardo's lack of participation in any of this, began to create an ache in his gut, a burning in his chest. What was he doing here?
“Your heart line here, it says you’re selfish in love and your heart is broken easy. You’ve experienced emotional trauma and depression because of it,” Her green eyes met his, laughing behind the neutral tone of her voice. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly, betrayed by his own flesh, hurt and denying her words, he leaned forward and looked down at his palm too, “Your palm speaks of what it has endured in the past year; these are the decisions and feelings you’ve had since then. You need to hear it plain as night. You’ve taken a preference to achievements you’ve made physically than the mental ones, and there have been inconsistencies in your thoughts, probably where these momentous decisions have come into play. You’ve had a sudden change in your lifestyle according to your life line; welcome to the war, we all have. Interestingly enough you’ve been manipulated by others. I advise you seek council cautiously.” He inhaled deeply, features smoothing out slowly as he listened to her, letting them seep in, despite himself. He nearly forgot there was another in the room. Her eyes were only on his as they locked, and Jack began to feel the anger break, just a little. She looked back down, and Jack did too, eager to not miss another word, “Ah, see, a deep fate line; Fate determines most of your life, but its trying to tell you you’re at a point when your interests should come after those of others. Ironic that even your palm thinks you’re selfish. You’re a water hand, just like Bernardo over there, but you’re deeply rooted into it where his is nearly like an air hand, too.” She was truthful in that statement. Fate was truly what he believed in, at this stage in his life. Fate had given him so many second chances, but little did he realize at what cost they would derange his mind and soul. He should have known nothing was for free. It wasn’t like a pocket or purse he could have snatched as a child. It was life… it was his happiness.
She played with his fingers, moulding his hand slightly before she spoke again, “I’ll make this part short and sweet. You’ve a need for instant gratification, you lack self-confidence, you’re prone to depression, you’re stubborn and cynical at times, but you’re neither shy nor talkative. You’re good at keeping secrets, according to these long nails of yours, but vampires tend to have long nails.”
Jack proverbially curled in to himself. Was he just susceptible to her words, letting them manipulate him while he was down? He wished it were so… he wished it wasn’t the truth that she was drilling in to him, with such judgmental eyes next to him watching him topple off even the lowest pillar of self-perceived esteem. The worst of it all, was understanding that he had known all of this all along, and denied so passionately that he had forgotten. He tried so desperately to be something, someone, else. When Adelaide died, he tried to change so dramatically, to become stronger, he took it upon himself to be what Bernardo needed. To be what he thought Bernardo wanted. But, never could Jack define what that truly was. And so he changed more, and again, until he forgot the man he used to be…

Barely, did he hear Maeve’s next words. Hardly, had he noticed she let his hand go, and sheepishly he dragged both of them back into his lap, staring far into nothingness at his feet, “After this hiatus in Paris, while the regents plan to move back to England, war will run rampant and consume anyone unprepared. This includes you both. You’ve only survived so long because you remained outside of it. You remained anonymous to the gods and goddesses of our world. This will not be the case upon the return to New Londontown. You will be called upon, you will be cast against one another, and you will be slaughtered if you refuse.” A chill passed from the base of the blonde’s skull, down to his fingertips and toes. He’d known it would come. They both did, all this time. They’d tried to forget, to have something forbidden under the blankets that was risqué and seductive, that brought them away from the reality of their crumbling mortal world. And now the veil was slipping away. To hear it from Maeve’s mouth, Jack cast a slow glance to Bernardo and met his eye, only for a second, and pursed his lips as he swallowed, “Run away, never look back, never return. The world you knew before the massacre is dead and gone; nothing will be the same. Escape anywhere you both can find peace. If you stay, I cannot protect you the way I want to. The best I can do is by telling you to run and pray you both listen.” She then began to pack up and take her leave, inviting them to stay to figure their troubles out, together in privacy. Jack watched her with a keen eye, seeing the cracks in her own foundation. She really wasn’t the bad guy for trying to protect Bernardo. The only one he could hate was himself, for troubling her, putting the extra stress onto her. He was supposed to care for his lover when he was broken… Not her… Not the bottle.

As the woman left them in silence, Jack’s heart ticked away the time in which they sat, not speaking. He half expected Bernardo to have left behind her, immediately, but he hesitated, and that left Jack open to break the ice. Through a cracking voice, he started slowly, “She’s right, you know? Those things she said. That I’m selfish.” He tilted his head and looked at the drink still sitting in front of him, “I did not believe I needed to have someone tell me before I truly understood…”
His breath was stunted, shaking as it left his fragile chest. The vampire swallowed down the bile that threatened as his body began to panic. His sudden fear that Bernardo would stand and leave him pushed him to his feet to pace around the small tent feverishly, “Bernardo, I am by no means a perfect lover. I’m not a perfect man. I don’t know how to love. The only other person I have ever given my heart to put herself in the Thames! The only family I ever had was not even my own! A-A-And the woman who claimed to be my own, would have killed you sooner than see me happy! I’ve never had a true example of how I’m supposed to be the ideal partner… I’ve never had the opportunity to understand what it is that lovers do… You deserve it all, and I’m trying to give it to you. I’m trying…” He stopped just short of the other’s chair and sighed, “I love you… And I can’t leave you. I’m selfish in loving you. You’re all I have left. You have every part of me wrapped around your fingers and I don’t want to be let go. If you want to leave the war, I’ll leave with you. You, and your life, are all that matter to me… Nothing else. That’s why I’m staying. That is what I am fighting for. For you. For US! What good is my life without you, when I don’t want anything more, and have nothing else? I have to fight because no one else will give us the satisfaction of a life where I don’t have to fear losing you to anything but time.”
His hands balled, then released as he turned to lean against the table, exasperated at it all, “Since that night… I haven’t heard a whisper, or seen a phantom shadow of her form.” He looked to the tailor, watching his eyes for a long moment, embarassed before he started again in an whisper, “I did it because I was afraid, Bernardo. I did it because I just… wanted everything to stop. Everything I’ve ever wanted has crumbled around me, including myself. Everything but you. And I’m terrified every moment that you will.”
“I let her win because I just wanted to keep you perfect. I wanted her to stop haunting us, telling me that you’re going to leave me, begging me to come home to her when I don’t love her anymore, and making you believe you were imperfect for me. For months I have heard nothing but her voice in every seed of doubt, and in every mistake I’ve made towards you. I wanted to stop seeing her face in my dreams, and see yours! I wanted you to be better off without me!” he exclaimed, knocking the glass of brandy across the table with a fluent hand, causing the blonde to stop and observe his surroundings for a long, silent moment. The feverish anger in him, at himself, manipulated his reason as he grimaced, “But, I see now, you are.” His fingers graced over the glass, picking it up, letting the droplets of liquor slip down his hand, his wrist, and he snarled at it’s hold. His gaze turned to Bernardo, leveled, and his voice even, “This was supposed to be ours. Do you come here to drink the night away, talking of a better life over drink after bloody drink? Do you sit as close as we are now and laugh to fool yourself in to forgetting everything you’ve lost? I’ve ruined our home, so you made one here, and here is your kitchen table!” He scoffed to himself, licking his lips furiously. He pushed away aggressively, hearing the squeal of the glass in his hand as it cracked, threatening to splinter, “I’m a coward, Mr. Maverick. I was selfish then, and I still am for only wanting you. I’m everything you loathe and I wish just as much as you do that I was something else. I didn’t ask to become this… abomination,” he motioned to himself, “I didn’t ask to be inhuman! If you want to end this, just tell me… I already feel like I’ve lost you. All I ask is you make the decision without the aid of a committee.” He motioned with the glass in his hand around the tent, before throwing it at the bottle of brandy on the tabletop. The collision set a spray of liquid splattering to the floor and across the surface of the table, glass fragments littering the tent.

In the heat of it, Jack turned to leave. He was angry with himself for being the creator of his own destruction, the painter of his own demise, for putting Bernardo in a position of pain and sorrow, to have to be replaced by someone else. None of it was his lover’s fault. It never had been. How could he be angry with the only person who cared to see him alive and happy? The man had saved his life, been his crutch time and again, cared for him in the darkest of pitfalls. His heart belonged to him… whether or not either wanted it to. His hands rubbed vigorously over his face in an attempt to clear his head, to convince himself to turn around and say he was sorry, but how could he now after so much trouble he'd caused. Was he even worth saving?

Just outside the flap of Maeve’s tent, Jack’s heart faltered to a grinding halt. It’s gears creaked to a stop, a searing pain soaring through his chest as Jack inhaled, but only coughed back the blood. He wheezed, coughing in to his arm as he winced at the pain. The city was far, but he needed to make it for the blood he desperately needed. As blood trickled past his lips and down his chin, gasping for a breath that wouldn't come, the worst of it all would be seeing Bernardo's face as he passed him by.


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[Legal Rehab]

“If I didn't think, I'd be much happier.”
— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
-----------------
----------------- While at times it often became perverse and uncalled for, Blitzen was quite fond of private conversations. Not the act of having them, but listening to the conversations of men and women who think no one is hearing them. In his line of work, he heard quite a few of them. While pilfering an estate he may hear about a murder framed on the least favorite child, or while scaling the balcony’s of an up scale motel he may hear of a church exploiting it’s tithing. Yet the locale of today’s mission was a personal favorite, today Blitzen was infiltrating a brothel.
----------------- Upon arriving in France and locating a base, the werebeast army was sent out in pairs to scout their surroundings. Gentleman Blitzen Bell, the jewel thief, had been sent out to scout Quarter Pigalle with the assasin, Sir Vilen Lagunov. The two of them had a few similarites such as being Russian and having little concern in the lives of others, yet the differences heavily outweighed the similarities.
----------------- The District reeked of alleycat accents, strong perfume and terrible cooking. The streets were bustling and full of civilians looking for a drink and perhaps a little more. It was clear why the quarter was known as, “Pig Alley.” Upon realizing the sheer population of the area, the two deciding to part ways and meet on a particular street corner with their findings, trying to stay together in this madness was more trouble than it was worth. The two men were not exactly attached to the idea of working together anyhow for they both did their best work when they were alone.
----------------- Blitzen now found himself scaling La Rose De Floraison, the brothel with the highest number of civilians turning in and out of it. He wondered why so many people were exploring the brothels in general, in England the Red Light District had never been this populace no matter which day he visited. From what he figured, the higher floor you were on at La Rose De Floraison was a symbol of social status. Poor chums made it no higher than the first floor, with an even poorer selection of women (and men) to choose from and little to no privacy. Should you actually have a few francs on you then you were invited to the second floor. Here the selection was not much better, the women on this floor were often the pregnant ones that still needed work. The pattern continued for the next six floors, with no chance at a respectable bedwarmer until the fourth floor.
----------------- Blitzen overheard the most absurd things while walking amongst the window seals and balconies of the establishment. He was well aware everyone had their special kinks to help them sleep at night, yet he could not help but chuckle when hearing them aloud. On the third floor he heard and elderly man cooing like a newborn while the woman under him feigned pleasure. On the fourth he saw a myriad of men and women making love in wine fermentation baths. Finally on the fifth floor he simply heard a woman exclaim, “let them eat cake!” and then nothing more. Brothels were quite the interesting locale indeed. With so many eyes it was impossible to make it to the top floor of La Rose De Floraison without being seen and likely escorted away. Blitzen slipped through the window’s of the third floor and scaled the building from the exterior. It was from the windows that he heard all of these naughty tidbits of conversation.
----------------- Any look at history could tell you that a woman’s love has been the downfall of many men. In Londontown, the city’s working women were privy to know more information than Blitzen did, and they were not even paid spies. Something about brothels seemed to give a careless man the need to spill their most private thoughts, perhaps it was a security of sorts or a sad attempt at asserting some sort of dominance by showing how important he was outside of the brothel. Any Jon is a Don in place like these and your title is left at the door, right next to your shame. Blitzen had been many brothels and understood this quite well, never feeling the need to tell a prostitute that he was a werebeast, a double agent for the Templars or even that he murdered an entirety of Russian Nobility. Others would not secure enough to indulge in desires without asserting themselves, if there was a place to find out more information about the vampires, the top floor was the place.
----------------- From an open window Blitzen heard a woman shouting in anger. Surprisingly they spoke English, the Queen’s English, which was a hint off to itself. There was fear in her voice, yet she was not being attacked. The recipient of the anger was no Don. Blitzen leaned over to the open window, which fluttered out sheer red curtains out into the night sky. Through the translucent fabric he peered through, quiet as a mouse on his feet.
----------------- “What’s wrong this isn’t like you?!” The woman exclaimed. She held her face in her palms, sitting at the foot of bedpost, her voice stung with frustration. Her hair was pinned high in perfectly curled ringlets of black gold. She wore a red ribbon in her hair matching the lipstick and streaks of eye shadow on her face. Her dress was dripping in jewelry, made of red and black sheer that gave her clients a view of what they were purchasing. A lover’s quarrel, so it would seem.
----------------- “This is what we decided,” a gentleman curtly said to her. He wore a red bowtie identical in shade to her bow on his collar, he had a young voice but the face of a man who shaved too often, rough around the chin but honest eyes. “We decided to protect our most precious thing. For that we will do anything.”
----------------- The woman stood from the bed, it was apparent she was holding back tears, the red in her eyes even more apparent by her choice of attire.“But I can’t stand to see you in such pain, Because I-…”
----------------- The man cut her off and placed his hands on her shoulders, Blitzen quietly climbed from the roof on to the windowseal, hiding behind the open curtain. “Did you forget? We can’t turn back now.” The two lovers shared a moment of silence. Blitzen wondered what it was they were attempting to protect, a child perhaps? Or something more? “Staying up late isn’t good for your health.” The man replied before donning his hat and turning for the door. “Good night.”
----------------- The woman did not move as he left. She spent several moments motionless as a statue, expressing sadness in her own privacy. The couple both appeared human, and both spoke of protection, but the information was still grey to him. Blitzen appeared in the woman’s window, resting one foot on the windowseal while the other swung casually over the interior floor. He let the woman have a few tears before making his presence known, for she was now his prey.
----------------- “Are you crying? Love is the last thing a woman like you should cry about,” Blitzen mocked, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at her form.
----------------- “W-Who-!” The woman twirled around jumping towards the door, makeup ran down her face in red and black lines. “Who are you?! This has nothing to do with you, Go! Now!” She quickly retrieved a butterfly knife from her boot and awkwardly pointed it towards Blitzen in an empty threat. Blitzen picked up a lit candelabra and walked towards her.
----------------- “You…” Blitzen quietly spoke. “You know it’s stupid to pursue a chap like him. He cannot return your feelings, he thinks himself a gentleman for treating you so nicely, but he knows it will only mar you more in the end.” Blitzen snickered at the fear in her eyes, she could have easily ran through the door and be surrounded by the public, yet she stayed. “How malicious…” He raised a finger to his mouth, motioning for her to keep quiet. Ah, there it is, human curiosity he thought to himself and wondered if he too was ever so naïve as a mortal. “When did it all begin? This… relationship… that relies on naught more than over-romanticized tears?”
----------------- “I’ll scream! I’ll have everyone up here if you don’t leave,” the mortal continued with her empty threats, knowing full well that the man before her was not the same as she. “What would you know?!” she barked as she swiped at him with the knife in a backhanded upward arc. Blitzen caught her thrust and pinned her against the open window, his body pushed against the mortal’s from behind.
----------------- “Nothing, but there is one article I know” He set the candelabra upon a low table and his voice began to change, not into the clear voice of his primal beast, but into one more familiar to the mortal. “The way to release you from that pain for just a while.”
----------------- “Stop Kidding! Let go!” she furiously responded.
----------------- “This is no tale.” Blitzen calmly responded. His pupils dialated and changed from an amber brown to a brilliant gold. A crooked smile grew across his face and his soulless gaze peered into her eyes. “What will you do with this heap of agonizing thoughts?” He whispered.
----------------- Mortals while ever curious are also powerless to the pheromones of beast and vampire alike. Just as a vampire is driven to the scent of potent blood, a human is driven to the dark aura of the creatures they do not understand. Blitzen took her hands and kissed away all of her rings, each one golden and full of false promises. “The burden they carry will never move. No matter how hard you call out to him, he will not call back to you.” The thief was astonished, that even a woman who sold love could be subdued by the very product she gave away.
----------------- “How pitiable,” He whispered while lifting her jeweled collar. Blitzen ran his gloved fingers through her black hair and unclaspied her pearls. “It’s painful isn’t it? Don’t you want to feel comfort?” The mortal was silent, not knowing whether or not they wanted they mystery behind them. “Forget him who is benevolent and vindictive…” Blitzen snapped the skirts from her waist, With each snap another jewel fell from her and onto his boots, like picking berries from a bush.
----------------- “I…I…” She murmured. [----------------- color=darkred]The Prey is deceived with sweet words and dragged into the darkness.
“Wouldn’t it be good to forget everything? Even if just for tonight?” Blitzen cooed in a voice unknown to him, but precious to the mortal. To not notice the dark powers of a werebeast “Indulge in pleasure, “ he whispered , It is done with expertise. His gloves explored her body, as she wore nothing but the warm skin above her bones.“Breathe a sweet poison into your lungs,” he whispered, It is quiet and it is sweet. “It is the allure of a beast.” He slid out of his clothes, unraveling her senses in the warm touch of a beast. “The breath that obliterates logic and allows it simply to fall.”
----------------- “I only want to get in and explore….” Blitzen took her by her shoulders and neck to see both of their naked forms upon the long mirror. Before them was too naked bodies, the mortal’s eyes did not want to believe what she saw. She was without logic and gone were those painful memories that poisoned her happy ending. In the mirror was her the man from before, clasping her in his brazen arms and filling her head with his familiar yet forgotten scent. “…That secret place deep inside of you,” Blitzen whispered, in the voice of her lover.

****

----------------- Blitzen met up with his partner after having his fill of information and other desires. He made no attempt to hide where he had been and his shoulders still bore traces of lovely perfume. Blitzen spoke first, eager to share his findings. He seemed much more excited about all of this than Vilen did. Blitzen had gone through a dry spell of not being tasked with missions for so long that his enthusiasm was perhaps getting the best of him in this conversation. In the long run thievery and assassination were a lot of like, both required extensive skill, boastful charisma and soft feet. The only real difference between the two professions of the men was that Vilen stole lives, not gems.
----------------- Blitzen spread all of his findings upon the table. Placing all of the harlot’s jewelry in small piles. It ranged from expensive precious stones to petty fake jewels. There were ruby chains, Moonstone earrings, quartz golden rings, black pearls, a gemmed choker, loose bracelets, silver hairpins and glittery anklets. He set most of it to the side but laid out the rings and black pearls in the center for further investigation. “You know, they say whoring is the world’s oldest profession,” he said with a drink, “yet a gentleman in my line of work may dispute that.”
----------------- Blitzen pointed to the rings and held their gleam up to the lantern light so that the filigree could be properly seen. “Do you see this comrade? I’ve examined the rings I kissed off the fingers of that wench, they are quartz crystals, bonded in gold. The humans believe it to be a vampire repellant of sorts, a fool’s theory, it is the rich man’s garlic braid.” Blitzen quickly dismissed the rings before moving on to the pearls. They reflected little light, like tiny black voids upon a string. “While the crystals lend towards human superstition, these are quite another story, surely a killer as yourself knows what these are?” Blitzen held the pearls up to the lantern, a myriad of colors could be seen in the blackness, a rich teal and pungent yellow as well as a bright magenta. “Within the eye of any creature lies a golden marble, per se, should you crack open that marble or simply grind down the outer layer a beautiful black gel such as this rests within.” He then tapped the beads with his nail, showing they were firm as stones. “These have been polished and set with resin, no human would be capable of making something such as these and with there being so many....” Blitzen strung out both of the necklaces, each one consisting of 40 pearls each at a minimum. “...a lot of Mortals died to make this jewelry, and there are more where this came from.”
----------------- “Vampires have truly overtaken this city, with a finger in every pie.” Blitzen held back a snicker following that metaphor. “These are gifts from vampires to these women, even the harlots are spies in this town, surely I am not the first beast to find himself in brothels of Quarter Pigalle. One must wonder why the French vampires would recruit lowly mortals, assuming a choice was given.” He pondered over the possibilities. Perhaps the vampires kept the whores human as a means to make more humans. In a city overrun with vampires, they were like to run out of humans very soon, and to one with eternal life, a nine month gestation period is very short. He thought to himself how fast the past ten years as a beast had gone by in reference. The crystals were perhaps also a sign of protection, while the pearls were a reminder of the consequences should the mortal courtesan ever defect from their Vampire benefactors. It was sickeningly cruel and Blitzen couldn’t help but smile at the cunning of these leeches.
----------------- “As you can see, I gained much more from the whore besides sloppy foreplay, do tell what your time in the Red Light District has produced Vilen?” Blitzen took another drink and began to put away all of the useless jewelry for pawning, leaving the rings and black pearls on the table. He looked into his cup with discontent as he saw that it was empty and then looked towards Vilen. The man had an odd sort of humor, responding to some of his quips and then outright ignoring others. He almost reminded him of another beast he had the displeasure of knowing.
----------------- “I see you spending quite a lot of time with the other Bird, surely your time spent with Maeve isn’t so precious that you refused to enjoy the lovely women of this quarter?” It was an evil quip, but kindness wasn’t a virtue to Blitzen. On the surface Vilen was a perfect stranger, Blitzen knew little about him, so most of his information came from the things he didn’t know. He saw him rarely with the Queen meaning he must not be close to her, yet he spent much time with the generals which was terribly curious. With both being on the same side, he didn’t want to drive off his fellow Russian too fast, nowadays his allies seemed to dissappear just as fast as they came. Even with them working together, he knew not if VIlen was friend or foe.
----------------- “I jest comrade,” he said with a sneer, “don’t let my petty curiosity bother you. Curiosity kills the fish they say.” Blitzen rocked back into his chair and folded his legs over. “Now, continue..”

[Phoelidae]

"Dead?" Kestrel couldn't quite keep the surprise from coloring his tone, but Constantin didn't seem to notice much. He just shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the extinction of the weres. Granted, that was what they were all supposedly fighting for, but the war had been waging for centuries, and it hardly seemed like a real possibility now. What would the vampires do if they did not have their eternal enemy to join in battle?

Nothing, apparently. Nothing but fight and kill each other in petty power struggles for a city that would soon be starving once its human population had been drunk dry. Constantin rambled on glumly about the other vampires who sought to displace him as the forerunner in their little power game, but Kestrel wasn't listening, instead turning over in his mind the problem he was now presented with. Mercy and all of her kin were in far more danger than any of them had expected if what the fool leech had said was true. A city of vampires, starving not only for blood but for violence and the thrill of the hunt ... the werebeasts would make much desired targets, and no doubt the factions would still be tripping over and killing each other for the chance to hunt them down and have them for themselves. Even the Midnight Jackal faced unfriendly odds when she was one beast with a handful of ragged supporters against a city full of feral, disorganized monsters. The treaty would be in tatters the moment the word got out that there was fresh game prowling the streets.

"Something to drink, old friend?" Constantin asked, ringing a small bell when he finally realized that he had lost his guest's attention. A wan, ashen girl appeared in the doorway and opened her wrist without flinching, filling a crystal wine glass with her fresh flowing blood. She staggered a little when she turned toward Kestrel, but he waved a hand. "Wine will suffice, thank you." The mortal decanted the wine and left without ever lifting her eyes. The vampire king watched her go as he twirled the stem of his glass. He hardly cared about mortal life, brief as it was anyway, but that girl would be dead inside of a week whether he helped it along or not. And though he didn't take any interest in human life, there was something about forcing any creature to bleed themself out one glass at a time over a period of weeks or months that struck even him as unnecessarily gruesome. Beside, it just wasn't the same if one wasn't drinking from the vein.

The black-eyed snake across from him tossed back his blood in one, undignified gulp, licking his lips and reclining a bit. Here it comes, Kestrel thought to himself, vaguely amused, whatever it is that he wants from me, my support, most likely ...

But Constantin never got the chance to make his proposition, because no sooner had he opened his mouth than the door swung open, and a figure strode in dressed in black, tossing out indifferent pleasantries as he came in a light, boyish voice.

"Kestrel Paradin." said a laughing voice from lost memories, "It has been a long time."

Kestrel lifted his head, disbelieving, and laid startled green eyes on a ghost from his past. For an instant their eyes locked, and suddenly memories surfaced of decades and centuries of looks exchanged between comarades in arms. And then the dark vampire tossed his head back and laughed, a genuine smile slashing across his face as he surged to his feet and crosse the room to his old friend, clasping Pesha's arms with his own as he looked down into the face of a young boy who was in reality almost as old as he. "Pesha, you old rascal, I thought you'd crawled off somewhere and died centuries ago! What the bloody hell are you doing here? Sit, sit! Constantin, if you don't mind, give old friends a moment to catch up, won't you?" With the host dismissed by his guest, Kestrel sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared hard at the boy.

"God almighty, I'd forgotten just how young you look. It's still bloody weird." That was a part of the reason Pesha had been so valuable to him once - the power that resided in that pale, sickly-looking little boy was enough to set any enemy on edge. Not to mention he'd liked the boy and genuinely enjoyed his company, as they murdered and adventured their way across Europe. Once, there had been no one he trusted more - until one day, Pesha had never returned from his mission to liasion with another very old vampire. Kestrel could only assume that he had either jumped ship, or been killed - in either scenario, he had been dead to Kestrel Paradin ever since.

"I haven't seen you since that night we took that Spanish Galleon, and I told you I wanted that Salazar b*****d under my banner. I never heard from you after that ..." The shock fading, suspicion set in, and Kestrel sat back a bit, his expression cooling. "Where have you been?" And why did you never return? Pride kept him from voicing the second question, but if Kestrel had ever had a friend, it had been Pesha, and finding that he had been alive all this time, and no doubt aware of his old King's movements, stung of betrayal. He had proved ... difficult to replace, and all his generals since had been sorely lacking in one way or another. But no, this pale boy before him, despite all they had gone through together, had abandoned him. And even if he had once been a friend, he hadn't been one for many, many years.

Still, Kestrel heard him out, scoffing here and there despite himself. "Well, haven't you become quite the scholar. Books, you say? No more black-outs of bloodshed, waking up surrounded by blood and bodies with no thought of how they got there or where they came from? Souns as if old age has made you dull." The vampire smirked and stood to refill his decanter, going to stand by the window and peer out at the sheets of gray rain, almost but not quite invisible in the darkness. "Me? Well, I've died, murdered by the twin I'd not given a thought to since I was fourteen, conned the reaper into carrying me back across the Styx, been reincarnated into a new body, and travelled from the coast of Spain with my most hated enemy - and that's all in the last year, to say nothing of the past hundreds. Now don't you wish you'd been along for the ride?"

But then they were interrupted, again, by the door opening abruptly, and another ghost walked into the room. A woman this time, her hips sashaying with confidence as she entered in a luxurious rustle of silk and velvet. She paused in the door and looked around. "Why, mes amis, you started the party without me? How rude." She glided across the room with her customary grace and tossed herself onto a small couch, somehow managing to make the movement look supremely lazy, and yet perfectly controlled. She winked at the room flirtatiously and cast Kestrel a smile. "Did you miss me?" she drawled lazily.

Kestrel raised his brows in disbelief, and then he let out a startled laugh, finding himself unexpectedly reunited with his inner circle, here in this crude French court. "Why you slippery whore! I can't believe my sister didn't kill you on sight ... or are you her whore now?' Perhaps this reunion was all just a little too convenient, on second thought. Bedelia had been a faithful memeber of his court at the time of his death, and he had to admit that he always could believe her to be a fair weather friend ... had both of his old companions turned on him?

B]"Why Kestrel, you know your sister could never afford me." She smirked that haughty smirk that always made him think of her almost as a brother, snatching some treat off the table and popping it into her mouth. "Besides, she's not quite my type." If she was shocked to see him alive, it didn't show - but then, Bedelia had always had a superb poker face, and an even better talent for knowing things she had no busines knowing.

Pesha had stiffened slightly at the arrival of his once rival and comarade, but Kestrel had sat back with one ankle hooked over his knee, all the arrogant ease from their old little meetings saturating his frame. He surveyed the woman coolly, but a smile curved the corner of his mouth, watching her as she watched him. "How have you been, mon cher? I haven't seen you since, well, you know - " she slashed one elegant finger across her throat, and Kestrel's eyes narrowed, his smile faltering ever so slightly. He did not care to be reminded of his defeat - and though he tried to brag about it, if he gave more than a moment's thought to his own death, it sent a cold chill down his spine. No, Death had left its scars on him, but he was hiding them well, and only the smallest of twitches betrayed the yawning pit in his core that had been left behind when he came back. "- And by your dear sister at that." Del continued, giving no indication that she'd noticed, "How is our beloved Ataraxia?"

"Kindly don't remind me," he said with a falsely flippant wave of his hand, "she quite ruined my favorite shirt. As for her, she's spiralling down into a bleak pit of self-destruction, so far as I can tell. She was always strung so very tightly, frankly I'm shocked it's taken her this long to snap. But my sister bores me." He shrugged one shoulder dismissively before waving at her. "You look well, for the minion of a deposed monarch. Keeping your pretty face well-fed, I take it?"

"Why Kestrel, I'm offended!" Bedelia quipped with a laugh, Have you ever known me to play the minion role for long? Our lovely Roi de Paris was never going to be roi for long. But then you showed up. You always ruin my very best plans," she lamented with a sigh.

"You're still such a girl," Kestrel mocked, remembering the days when he had teased her like a sister. "Perhaps I ruin your plans because they all rely on lace and chiffon? Still, you know I aways did admire your ambition" She crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, and he caught the whiff of perfume and old blood that he had always associated with the Black Widow. She had a retort, as she always did, and then mentioned that she had come as soon as she had heard instead of waiting for his summons. He knew her well enough to know that he was being baited, so instead he nodded toward Pesha. "Well I imagine you'd heard that Pesha was here. He always was your favorite person." He settled back in his chair, his eyes glittering as he watched the two vampire who had once vied so viciously for his favor, reunited. He sensed ... something, in the undercurrent between them, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. And never having had a true rival, he assumed it was just the curious sort of dependent anatgonism the two shared, ever divided even as they were united by the same goal.

But finally, when the pair had taken their proverbial swipes at each other, Kestrel stirred, downed the last of his wine, and said "Very well, my dear Bedelia, I'll bite. Why are you here?" But the answer, admittedly, was not the one he had expected. In fact, it wasn't one that had even occured to him. With complete gravity, the pretty bird he had rescued from her gilded cage centuries ago asked to be his general, his right hand, his first in command. She was always full of surprises, Bedelia, a part of the reason she still continued to amuse him. He had not expected her to stay on with a new king after she was freed from the last one, and he certainly had not expected her to prove useful, or dangerous, in any way. Nor had he expected her to enjoy bathing in the blood of her sexual conquests ... but to each their own, he supposed. Regardless, his unlikely follower had served him faithfully for many years - though he suspected that no small part of that was because his aims and hers neatly aligned. Would she serve faithfully even if that were not the case? She had adapted to his death easily enough and moved right on to promote her own ends ... but was that cowardice, or competence? He could hardly expect someone with half a brain to die for their already murdered king, and Del had more than half.

And then again, whom did he have that he could even begin to trust? He looked to Pesha, but just from their brief talk he knew that they would no longer see eye to eye on as many things, and whatever his reasons had been for leaving, Kestrel could not trust that they would not happen again. No, the days of trusting Pesha with his life would be a thing of the past. But Bedelia ... well, she had never given him any reason not to trust her, and his friends were admittedly few and far between.

He had let the silence stretch while he considered, and now his glittering green eyes locked with hers. "You may serve as my general ... if you can prove yourself worthy of the post. The Jackal has a very competent general by the name of Noora, Noora Jockelainen. Bring me a lock of her hair, by whatever means you deem fit, and you will be my general. "

[Bitter Aphrodisiac]

XXXXXXXBedelia’s eyes smiled languidly at the Court before her as she rested atop the luxurious embroidered pillows of her chaise. Well over a hundred vampires stood before her sprawled form, bowing their heads as their monarch walked slowly towards the dais on which his Maison du Roi lounged. Standing in silence, the entire congregation listened to the faint fall of Carlisle Beaufort’s footsteps and the rhythmic tap tap tap of his well-polished cane echo throughout the marbled ballroom. What is it with Kings and their canes? She thought to herself, remembering the cane Kestrel carried at his hip at all times. Ataraxia carries it now, la garce. Oui, every king must have his cane.
XXXXXXXA small yawn escaped Bedelia’s mouth as the ritual proceeded, but she quickly covered it with a crocheted fan across her lips. The miniscule movement was enough to catch her lover’s eye, and she smirked behind her accessory, gently sliding it across her cheek. I want you. His returning smirk was nearly imperceptible to the human courtesans in the room, but every vampire knew exactly what it meant. It was no secret amongst the Court that their Monarch had a soft spot for the Black Widow, and always had, ever since she first visited the beginnings of his menagerie centuries ago in an attempt to track down her family’s murderers. Paris had never developed itself into such an organized vampyric monarchy as New Londontown had, which Del partially blamed on the arrival of the vampires and werebeasts coming so close after the fall of the Ancien Régime. After a few centuries of unrest, however, the vampires were beginning to return to the old ways. What started out as hundreds of small clans in the beginning had recently morphed into several large Courts, all of which vied for absolute control of the city, with Carlisle’s Court in the center of the 16ème Arrondissement being the one Del had calculated having the greatest likelihood of succeeding. It was not the largest, but it had the largest concentration of influence, control, and power of all the other makeshift Courts, resulting in the greatest number of old vampires and aristocratic lineage. And in France, no matter what the time, age and lineage were control, and control was power.
XXXXXXXHer etiquette was what first caught Carlisle’s eye. Having been raised in an aristocratic household was nearly a requirement to attend his Court, and her family had been one of the oldest and most respected in all of France, and she its lone survivor. Coupled with the reputation that the werebeasts had bestowed upon her with their loving nom de plume, it made her one menacingly desirable woman. Bets had been placed on how long it would take her to have the French King in her bed. It took her less than a few hours to find out about it and bet on her time as well, and before the night was over she had lured him with a few motions of her fan into the lavish apartment he had given her.
XXXXXXXHe was almost to the dais now, and she sat up slowly, the skirt of her cream taffeta gown spilling gently to the floor as she raised her fan to rest delicately on her lips. Kiss me.. His smirk widened to a grin as he mounted the stairs to stand before her, turning her chin to him with one finger to place a chaste peck on her lips. «Ma chérie.» With that completed, he turned to the courtesan on the step below him, taking a strong grip on the man’s blonde hair and pulling it to the side to reveal the soft curve of an unscarred throat. Fangs emerged, sinking themselves into the pale flesh, and the man moaned. The entire congregation watched hungrily in silence, and the other courtesans readied themselves for the pleasure of feeding their lovers and masters. Their King pulled back, revealing two perfect red puncture marks at the juncture of the man’s throat and shoulder, and licked his lips before addressing his subjects. «Nous allons banqueter!» His voice boomed throughout the ballroom. Let us feast! Drunken conversation and pleasure moans filled the silence once more.
XXXXXXXCarlisle took his seat on the chaise beside her, their courtesan for the night resting at their feet with his head leaning on his King’s thigh. She couldn’t resist trailing her fingers over his bared chest and arms, watching him writhe on the floor before her, practically begging to be bled. She had requested a pretty boy this time, and her lover had brought them a pretty man, where from she did not know nor did she care. «Un modèle exotique. Merci, ma douce.» She whispered in her lover’s ear. An exotic one. Thank you, my sweet. She cared not for the humans of the earth except when she needed a good meal, and reserved her hatred for those who obeyed the orders of the werebitch Mercia Addison. Her lover knew of Bedelia's disdain for the Werebeast Queen and her ilk, and had promised her retribution for the crimes she had committed against her. The promises mattered not, however. Carlisle was too foolish to realize that he had already handed over all the tools she needed to take Addison down.
XXXXXXXOne arm wrapped around her waist as she leaned against him, his hand playing with the delicate black lace that embellished her sleeves. His blood red eyes turned to match her chocolate ones. «Rien pour vous, mon amour.» Anything for you, my love. She ignored the pet name, as it was one of her least favorite, and looked out across the sea of his subjects. The formalness and pleasantries of his Court were a nostalgic refreshment for her: every night the same avant garde ritual, the same kiss and opening remarks before their meal could begin. It reminded her of her mortal life as a member of the French aristocracy, before she had been so brutally ripped away from her family so many centuries ago. It wasn’t quite home, but with Kestrel gone, the Red Death humiliating the New Londontown vampires by joining rank with the likes of Mercia Addison, and her family long since dead, it was a welcome reprieve from the war. In fact, it was almost as if the war had never touched the 16ème Arrondissement, or rather as if the war against the werebeasts had already been won, and all that remained was to see which vampire came out on top. And Del knew where she was placing her bets. The rest of France’s vampires may have been struggling to survive with a shortage of food, but at Carlisle’s Court, all was right with the world: none went hungry, and the humans, in exchange for protection from La Guerre des Roi Vampires, were willing courtesans to those few vampires with noble beginnings. After centuries of life riddled with war, it was certainly a breath of fresh air, but part of her still longed for the threats and the brashness New Londontown allowed her to partake in. That life is gone from me now. So long as Ataraxia rules our ilk, I shall not return. She reminded herself, drawing herself back to the present. She had already established her strategy for Paris long before she had pledged herself to Carlisle Beaufort. Upon arriving in her beloved city, she would pledge herself to the strongest contender for Paris rule, then advise them through conquering the rest of the Courts. She had achieved her first objective thus far, and had moved onto the second stage of her plan: the takeover. Once Carlisle established himself as Le Roi des Vampires in Paris, and she had trained their subjects well enough in the art of warfare, she would use her influence over her “lover” to wipe Mercia Addison, Ataraxia Nihilo, and the New Londontown werebeasts off the face of the earth once and for all.
XXXXXXXWith a pleasurous sigh Del rose up straight, drawing her hand down Carlisle’s thigh to tangle her fingers in their courtesan’s blonde locks. He rose without hesitation, hunger in his eyes as he sat down in his king’s lap and displayed the other side of his smooth, virgin throat. The pretty ones were reserved for the Maison du Roi, as they had the most control over their appetites and would not murder their courtesans, and therefore they lasted longer, and the virgins reserved for the King and his paramour. Eyes flashing as she caught Carlisle’s gaze, she yanked their meal’s head sharply to the side to rest on Carlisle’s shoulder, and he cried out in shock at the sudden movement. At the same time, Carlisle’s arms came up to wrap around the man’s torso, restraining him as she admired how their courtesan’s pale gold locks contrasted with her lover’s silvery white tresses. Del smirked as the man writhed in Carlisle’s arms, trailing the tips of her fingers over the growing bulge in his leather pants with a sadistic grin.
XXXXXXX«Ne pas vidanger celui-ci, ma chérie, j'aime la façon dont il se tord.» Carlisle whispered in their meal's ear, but his eyes and words were all for her. Do not drain him, my dear, I like the way he writhes. Her grin morphed into a self-satisfied smirk as she leaned closer to the panicked pulse in their meal’s throat, knowing full well why Carlisle wanted him functional, and it wasn’t for his blood.
XXXXXXX«D’accord, monsieur, mais je reçois la première bouchée. » She whispered against that frantic pulse. Alright, sir, but I get the first bite. She wasn’t referring to the blood, either. Fangs sunk into soft flesh and unwarranted moans erupted from the man’s parted lips as Del reveled in the high his lifeblood gave her. She had just begun to release herself to the grip of her need when suddenly the room went completely silent but for the sounds of well-worn shoes slapping the marbled floor. Releasing her prey, Del stood with inhuman speed, not even a drop of blood escaping her lips as her eyes narrowed on the perpetrator of the disruption. One of the New Londontown vampires she had brought with her to Court had burst into the ballroom, running full throttle towards her as guards followed. She waved them off, waiting for an explanation as she glowered at the out of breath vampire. He had been merely a pawn on Kes’s chessboard, but she had allowed him to accompany her under the condition that he did not embarrass her. As he was doing now. She had left him to infiltrate a lesser court upon arriving, and had not seen him since.
XXXXXXX“Madame Chevealier, I have just received-” He began, and it took her a second to comprehend his English, as she had been speaking nothing but French since arriving in Paris. His words did not matter to her though, and she grabbed his collar and yanked him to her, well aware that every eye in the room was on them.
XXXXXXX“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She hissed, their faces mere inches apart. Her English was nearly perfectly unaccented, but for the slight guttural R that marked her origins. Centuries of practice left the tongue almost native to her, but her regard for her speech quickly left her as she stared into her Pawn’s frantic eyes. She ought to have his head for disobeying a direct order.
XXXXXXX“Madame, please, I’ve just received word that-” He started once more, but again she cut him off.
XXXXXXX“I ought to have your head for disobeying my direct order.” She stated simply, releasing him as he stumbled back.
XXXXXXX“Yes, but Madame, you must understand. I have amazing news-”
XXXXXXX“Is that so? Because I have-”
XXXXXXX“Kestrel Paradin is alive!” He blurted, and a hushed whisper of surprise circled the room. For a moment she was too stunned to respond, but then her senses returned to her and she grabbed his shirt right over his ticking heart.
XXXXXXX“If you are lying to me, and this is a simple rumor you’ve heard circulating on the streets of Paris, I will rip your heart out for embarrassing me in front of the Court.” Her words were a steady, low threat, and it was then that the young vampire realized what he had done. He fell to his knees before her glowering gaze, groveling with his body for her forgiveness. Her disdain for him showed plainly on her face.
XXXXXXX“It is no lie, Madame Chevealier. Our King lives.” He begged.
XXXXXXXShe glared at the pathetic excuse for a vampire before her, but managed to change her expression into a warm smile as she leaned down to look him in the eye. “I hope you are right, mon cher, for it would be a tragedy to die for a lie.” And with that her hand shot straight through his chest, yanked out the mechanical heart that kept his body alive and crushed it in her fist. His body crumpled to the floor as she tossed the useless hunk of metal to the side and servants ran up to dispose of the mess his death had made. With little more than a sideways glance, she spun to face Carlisle once more, where he sat stroking their courtesan and watching her with fervor. She took a seat on the edge of the chaise, tracing little red lines on the man’s chest with the blood that coated her arm to hear his lovely moans once more. Evidently her nuisance had fed recently, by the amount of red that dripped from her fingertips. What a waste of good fresh blood.
XXXXXXX“Je suis désolé, ma douce, but it appears I have made a mess.” She spoke to Carlisle playfully in mixed French and English as her fingers moved farther down their meal’s body, causing him to squirm with pleasure. “Allow me to excuse myself while I go wash up. Keep up your appearances, mais, s’il vous plaît, join me soon. Excuse-moi.” She left him with a chaste peck on the lips and began her trek across the ballroom with every eye on her. It was customary for the King to remain at his Court for at least a few hours, so Bedelia knew her lover would not be joining her anytime soon. It did not matter, however. She needed the time alone to plan her next move.
XXXXXXXAfter all, Kestral Paradin was alive, and that changed things.


~

XXXXXXXIt had been nearly a month since she heard the news of Kestrel's undeath, and the Black Widow had barely left her study since. She spent her time analyzing her options from every possible angle, decoding the possibilities one chess piece at a time, looking for the tip in the scales that would decide where her loyalties would lie. Where would her old friend go to next? What were his intentions now that he had returned from Hades, if less than a little unscathed? Could Carlisle's claim to Paris contend with her former King's prowess? Who had the greatest likelihood of achieving her - their - ultimate goal: the annihilation of Mercia Addison, and the werebeasts? She consulted her tarot cards; the recounts of every battle both Kes and Carlisle had led (numerous for the former, sparse for the latter, she found); her strategic journals she kept while lying awake at night; comparing and noting and exacerbating the issue until she couldn't take it anymore. Finally, with a fatal toss of her latest journal into the flames of her midnight fire, she collapsed, breathless, into a chair.
XXXXXXXHad anyone walked in at that very moment, what a sight they would have beheld. The infamous Black Widow lying amongst a mass of wildly strewn papers, half-scrawled notes, and various open books, eyes wild and hair tousled out of its usual neat bun, body wracked by sobs of exhaustion and uncertainty. She had been at her little game for weeks now and had still yet to come to a strategical conclusion. Where she could normally instantaneously see the correct course, her vision was blurred; where she normally, instinctively knew the outcome of any given confrontation, her mind was clouded. Her tried and true skills had failed her.
XXXXXXXFor a long while she sat unbelievably still, staring blankly into the orange flames as they licked and ate away at the journal she had used to catalogue her decisions. She felt devoid of any reason, of any differentiating factor to help her decide which path to choose. She hadn't felt anything close to the desperation she felt now since --
XXXXXXXSince the night Ataraxia cut off his head. It all came back to her now. The clawing, desperate indecisiveness she had fought so hard to repress was upon her once more, except instead of having to decide whether or not to leave what had been her home for over 500 years, she now had to decide whether or not to return to it. What had she done then, in the throes of desperation, alone in her study after the news of her King's death had reached her? Her skills had left her then, too. What had she left to guide her in that moment? Her heart? That fickle thing which ticked ever so incessantly inside her chest, never ceasing, the ever present reminder of the life that had been stolen from her? It wasn't even hers, but the creation of her mad then-lover, a replacement for the heart he stole from her and never gave back. The fact that his wretched key did not fit her lock was poor consolation to her pain.
XXXXXXXAnd yet she found herself at a crossroads once more, having to rely on the very thing that she despised in the absence of her wits. With a steady breath she closed her eyes, looking deep inside herself, allowing the soft tick-tick-tick she had grown to ignore envelop her senses as she meditated on her present problem. Strategy and analysis be damned, what was it that she wanted to do? What was her gut -- no, her heart -- telling her to do? Within a few moments, she had her answer.
XXXXXXXHer heart and her mind settled once more, she rose, tiptoeing around her carefully placed stacks to the washroom, where she undressed and took a hot bath for the first time in what felt like weeks. In fact, she realized as she soaked her long tresses, it had been at least three. It wasn't long before her attendant, a scrawny waif of a thing, came to help her dry and dress that she realized it had been just as long since she had last fed. It was clear the girl had been bled recently, however, and Bedelia quite liked her and wanted not to be the cause of her death, therefore after fixing her cameo to her collar she gave the child leave for the day and went off to find another source of food.
XXXXXXXShe caught a glance of herself in a passing mirror, cheeks slightly sunken but still fresh and slightly flushed from the sheer amount of blood she had consumed in the weeks prior to her isolation. She was so distracted by her altered appearance that she would have run into Constantin, Carlisle's faithful advisor, had her reflexes not caught her as he blindly rushed around the corner, flustered for some unbeknownst reason.
XXXXXXXHe noticed her presence almost too late, but quickly backpedaled, spewing a range of apologies for his misstep before she waved them away, uninterested in his formalities. “Salut, Constantin. Where are you off to in such a hurry?” She raised an eyebrow at his demeanor, arms folded delicately over one another. Something was amiss, and she always made it her business to find out what.
XXXXXXX"Bonjour, Madame Veuve Noire." He began uneasily. He only addressed her as the Black Widow when he knew she wouldn’t like what he was about to say, and tension seeped into her face as the words left his lips. "How do you fair? I know our Roi has been worried for your health, but has kept his distance at your behest."
XXXXXXX“I am feeling much better, merci, Constantin. But that still does not answer my question.” The slight threat in her voice was no longer idle as she took a step closer to him, growing impatient with his obvious attempts at stalling.
XXXXXXX"Well, that is good, very good, très bien!" He responded, still stalling. "I am merely going to update our Roi about--" He abruptly paused, and Bedelia seized her chance.
XXXXXXX"About what, mon ami?" Her eyes narrowed on his lanky frame. She had never liked Constantin, something about his beady black eyes and slim, tall frame reminded her of a snake in the grass waiting to strike. She had warned Carlisle of such, but he paid no heed then, and would pay none now.
XXXXXXXConstantin kept glancing to the corner he had just rounded, not saying a word. Finally Del tired of waiting, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him close. "Who is here, Constantin? And do not lie. You've seen what I do to liars." She was referencing the night her pawn embarrassed her in front of the Court. The vampire may not have been lying, but Del couldn't have taken that chance; either way, the example proved her point.
XXXXXXXHe gulped, before finally answering. "Kestrel Paradin."
XXXXXXXBedelia went deathly still, face hardening, voice coming out as a calm whisper. "Why was I not informed?" Constantin knew someone was in trouble, and that someone was him, and attempted to spew a rehearsed excuse about her requesting not to be bothered, but Del was off before he even finished his sentence. "Quelle chambre, Constantin?" Which room? She asked politely as she rounded the corner, not even waiting for his response as she knew he would respond before running off to warn Carlisle of the storm he just released.
XXXXXXXIt took her less than a minute to come upon Kestrel's room, but she paused outside the door, suddenly wary and uncertain. It had been a year since she had last seen him alive, which in the course of their friendship was nothing, but this time, things were different. She had left their people for her homeland, had turned her back on them at the moment of his demise, and hadn't even given them a second thought until news of him reached her. In fact she had only just decided what course of action to take a mere hour ago! Was she ready to face her former King after so little time for deliberation?
XXXXXXXYou are no coward. Show the world a brave face, and get on with it. She prepared herself, morphing her visage into her well-practiced, near-perfect poker faced smile before waltzing into the room to greet her contemporary.
XXXXXXXAt the sight of Pesha, however, she nearly faltered. That was one detail Constantin would have done well to include. It had been over three centuries since she had last seen his child-like face, when she had stumbled upon him at his sire's manse and promised him to relay his message to Kestrel. A promise I did not keep, albeit purposefully. She couldn't allow herself to dwell on that fact, however, and greeted them without skipping a beat. "Why, mes amis, you started the party without me? How rude." Floating over to the open chaise across from Kestrel, she gave them both a smirk and a wink as plopped down effortless, flashing Kestrel her best, most self-satisfied smile. "Did you miss me?"
XXXXXXXAny uncertainty or uneasiness she felt before entering was immediately dispelled as conversation started flowing. While it hadn't been long since they had last spoken, Del realized how much of a hole had been left behind by his absence, and how reinvigorated she felt simply by conversing with him for a few moments. She realized just how much she admired and had missed her friend. Their relationship had always been a playful one, with witty banter constantly tossed back and forth, insults and adulations alike, causing some to believe they were more than simply comrades. The thought made Bedelia gag. No, Kestrel had always been the brother she had never had, and she always felt that she filled the same void in him. Until his twin sister, Ataraxia, came to play, and promptly sliced off his head.
XXXXXXXWhen she brought that up, however, she noticed right away the stiffness that suddenly occupied his jaw and the narrowing of his emerald eyes. This was as close as she was going to get to the truth, she knew: he had not left the realm of the truly dead unscathed. "Kindly don't remind me. She quite ruined my favorite shirt. As for her, she's spiraling down into a bleak pit of self-destruction, so far as I can tell. She was always strung so very tightly, frankly I'm shocked it's taken her this long to snap. But my sister bores me. You look well, for the minion of a deposed monarch. Keeping your pretty face well-fed, I take it?"
XXXXXXX"Why, Kestrel, I'm offended!" She quipped back with a laugh, careful to not let her face nor her voice betray the information she had just ascertained. "Have you ever known me to play the minion role for long? Our lovely Roi de Paris was never going to be roi for long. But then you showed up. You always ruin my very best plans," She lamented with a dramatic sigh, throwing one hand across her forehead in a dramatic flourish before laughing once more. It had been far too long since she had felt this at ease with anyone, and since a mere conversation had given her such unadulterated joy.
XXXXXXX"You're still such a girl! Perhaps I ruin your plans because they all rely on lace and chiffon? Still, you know I always did admire your ambition." Kestrel mocked her, unabashed, as they had been accustomed to since he had rescued her from her sire.
XXXXXXX"A girl I may be, oui, but you'll find here that lace and chiffon are just as deadly of weapons as swords and canes, but while everyone expects the sword, no one notices the needle hidden within the folds." She replied slyly, slipping one of her throwing needles from their pocket within her sleeves to idly flip between her fingers, but replaced it with a laugh before walking over and formally greeting her friend, giving him a kiss on each cheek. "Oh, I have missed you, mon meilleur ami. I came as soon as I discovered your presence."
XXXXXXX"Well I imagine you'd heard that Pesha was here. He was always your favorite person." Was Kestrel's response, and she stiffened ever so slightly at the reminder. She and Pesha always had an…interesting relationship, to say the least. What started out as friendly play had soon blossomed into full blown rivalry for Kestrel's affection, and when Pesha had informed her -- and only her -- that he was leaving in search of his sire, well… Del had carefully left that bit of information out in order to replace him in Kestrel's good graces. Even faced with the repercussions of such an omission, however, Del knew that she could still get away with it. Evidently Pesha hadn't mentioned this to Kestrel, or he would have said something, so Del was still in the game.
XXXXXXX"To the contrary, mes amis, I hadn't been informed of either of your presences until I ran into that snake Constantin in the hall. Non, it appears mon roi cher took my want of isolation quite a bit too seriously." She said with a tinge of annoyance, pulling pack to have both of her contemporaries in her view. "But it matters not, for we are all united once more. How are you, my dear friend? It has been so long since we last saw each other, Kestrel and I thought for sure you were well and truly dead!" She gave him her best smile, no hint of their centuries old bargain she had failed to keep coloring her words as she gave him a kiss on the cheek hello.
XXXXXXXPesha was clearly annoyed with her as he said his own hellos, implying less than subtley than she had clearly forgotten something important in her old age. Choosing to ignore the obvious implication in his tone, Del merely laughed. "Why, if I am very old, as you say, mon petit ami, that would make you positively ancient! If I do recall, you have quite a few years on me." She let out a healthy chortle, a sly flash to her eyes as she glanced at him. "As it be, I attempted to ascertain your whereabouts once we discovered you were missing, I even attempted to track you down! But to no avail. You were very good at hiding your tracks, evidently." She smirked at him, waiting for him to take the bait. If she knew him, and she did, he wouldn't take it, but it was amusing nonetheless.
XXXXXXXHis response was less than satisfactory, if annoying, she found. A quip about my age, really, Pesha? How original. Predatorily circling behind him, she let out an easy laugh, lifting the decanter to poor herself a glass of fresh blood that Constantin had left behind. Her hunger was getting to her, but she must not let it show. "I was old enough to have intimate knowledge of another person without evoking disdain, unlike some." She said pointedly without glancing at him. "Though if you must know, I was 22 when Aldridge turned me, but as I recall you already knew that"
XXXXXXX"Was 22 really your age, or just as high as you could count?" Pesha asked smugly, and Bedelia tensed so suddenly in a burst of annoyance that she snapped the stem of the wine glass in her hand, turning to glare at the child that stood before her. She would have throttled him had Kestrel not intervened, and she took the time to drink her fill from her snapped glass. Her hunger was getting the best of her, and she needed to calm her nerves.
XXXXXXX"Very well, my dear Bedelia, I'll bite. Why are you here?" Her King carefully redirected the conversation, as he was always apt to do when the three were together. She was grateful for his intervention, although she would never say so, but took a moment to herself to finish her drink, set down the broken glass, and prepare herself for what came next. Had everything happened according to plan she would already know what she was going to say to him -- and Pesha would not be here to witness it -- but alas it was not so, and she had to do everything off the top of her head.
XXXXXXXTaking a deep breath, she turned to stand in front of him, eyes steadily on his. "We have been friends for many, many years, you and I. You rescued me from my cage so many centuries ago and allowed me to stay on as your humble follower in order to repay that debt to you, but, alas, when it came time for me to repay the life you gave me by saving yours, I was all but helpless. Even though it was not in my purview to guard your life, I felt responsible, and believed it was my duty to avenge your death, so I found myself here. Yet here you are before me, and I find that you no longer need avenging. Therefore I find the only way to truly repay the debt I owe is by pledging myself to you once more." She knelt at this point, more out of respect than anything. Although her debt played a small part in her decision, her happiness played a larger role, but that she would never admit to him. No, talk of duty and debts was far safer game than honesty when it came to Kestrel Paradin. "This time, though, not as your follower, but as your General."
XXXXXXXIt was a long moment before her King met her eye, but when he did, they were glittering with excitement. "You may serve as my general ... if you can prove yourself worthy of the post. The Jackal has a very competent general by the name of Noora, Noora Jockelainen. Bring me a lock of her hair, by whatever means you deem fit, and you will be my general."
XXXXXXXThe Black Widow allowed a sly grin to spread across her lips, umber eyes burning with a passion for a fight. "It would be my genuine pleasure."




La Guerre des Roi Vampires: War of the Vampire Kings
Je suis désolé: I apologize / I am sorry
Mais: But
S’il vous plaît: Please (literal translation: if it pleases you)
Madame Veuve Noire: Madame Black Widow
Mon meilleur ami: My best friend
Phew! Finally done! Sorry it's so long, I got a little overzealous XD Let me know what you guys think, if there's anything I need to change, and any constructive criticisms you might have 3nodding I'm excited to get to my next post!

UnrisenPhoenix
K33LA

[K33LA]

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Excitement, melting into mild disbelief, and finally sinking into carefully veiled distrust; it was not surprising, though it was… unfortunate. The changes were apparent on Kestrel’s face. He was rarely one to mask his feelings.

"Pesha, you old rascal, I thought you'd crawled off somewhere and died centuries ago! What the bloody hell are you doing here? Sit, sit! Constantin, if you don't mind, give old friends a moment to catch up, won't you?” Kestrel ushered him to a large, comfortable chair, one that was nicer than the cushy chair in his own study, and Pesha made a mental note to buy a new one even more plush and cushioned than Constantin's. He would not be outdone by Constantin. Kestrel’s attitude managed to be both agitated with excitement, yet positively and unabashedly relaxed; that was something Pesha had forgotten about him. It had once been a source of endless amusement, though now it felt deceptive. It made the vampire King hard to read. Pesha smiled a secretive, playful smile.

“I am harder to kill than you think, Kestrel. But I admit, it truly has been ages! It is… good to see your face,” he replied. And he meant it. Despite the centuries of self-imposed seclusion, there was part of him that missed the excitement of his early life, deep down; seeing Kestrel after so many years brought a wash of nostalgia bubbling up to the surface. The child-vampire folded his hands neatly in his lap, having smoothed out the creases in his pants. Whether the action itself made him look frivolously young, or Kestrel was simply rediscovering the eerie boy he had slaughtered the masses alongside, his next comment made Pesha chuckle.

"God almighty, I'd forgotten just how young you look. It's still bloody weird."

“The name Pesha Salazar and ‘weird’ have always been synonymous. Yet after a few centuries, it is understandable that even a King may forget. I am just thankful word of your arrival reached me in time,” he said, nodding to Constantin with forced politeness. Typically he would not have made the effort, though in the presence of Kestrel it felt respectful to at least try; if it kept him out of anymore trouble than he was bound to get pulled into now, it was worth it. He had never liked the old snake, of which he had made abundantly clear. The rube never seemed to get the picture. He remembered the day Constantin had expected him to bow, upon his return to Paris. Pesha could still recall the expression on the Duke’s face as he walked right past him with hardly a nod of the head. “When I heard, I knew my reclusiveness was at its end.”

"I haven't seen you since that night we took that Spanish Galleon, and I told you I wanted that Salazar b*****d under my banner. I never heard from you after that … Where have you been?” Pesha blanched, his brow furrowing. His lips parted - a cherub’s rosy pink - and he paused.

”Where have I been? I…” He did not veil his confusion. Pesha had done all he could to inform Kestrel before his flight from New Londontown, leaving his message with Bedelia. He had even written letters to update his friend, though he never received a reply. Eventually, he had given up. Kestrel had either lost interest, or his assassins would one day come for collection. ”I left in search of Salazar, as I told…” A thought occurred to him then, a piccolo’s cry over the choatic symphony. As I told Bedelia, that conniving worm. His eyes lifted to the window, anchoring in the inky blackness of the night. What could he say, he wondered, that would not sound like a desperate lie to save face? His jaw tensed, but he stanched the growl growing in his throat. ”After the Galleon, I went to persuade Salazar to join us, and yet… Once I arrived at his manse I found it in ruins. I could not find his remains, so I went in search of him. I had not the time to tell you of my plans personally before I was off; I now understand that was a grander mistake than I previously believed…” It was decided; now was not the time to reveal Bedelia’s betrayal. She would get her due, provided she still lived. They had never been friends, but he had always counted her his ally. He kept his indignant rage in check, and continued.

”I traveled all through Europe and Asia, changing direction when I thought I had caught wind of Salazar. Eventually, I accepted he was dead and gave up. By that time my stomach for war was gone, and you were, apparently, dead. All I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts and write my books. I’ve written quite a few novels since On the Workings of the Werebeast, you know. Most of which I am sure you would find positively dull,” Pesha chuckled. It was true, all of it, in spite of the omission. He was not sure the truth would have made a difference to Kestrel; in the end, Pesha had left and never returned. As playful as Kestrel was, he always had the tendency to see such things in black and white. But what immortal did not?

"Well, haven't you become quite the scholar. Books, you say? No more black-outs of bloodshed, waking up surrounded by blood and bodies with no thought of how they got there or where they came from? Sounds as if old age has made you dull." Pesha could sense his old friend’s wariness, not so much from the tone of his voice than the look in his eyes. It was present, but somehow glassy. Kestrel was thinking about something, the subject of which Pesha could imagine, but never know for certain. Pesha’s smile was bittersweet.

”Yes, I suppose it has. And what of you? I have heard so many rumors over the years; it was difficult to separate truths from half-truths and flat-out lies. The truth is bound to be as riveting as the make-believe, knowing you,” Pesha commented amiably. The ways in which Kestrel had met his end were numerous, some amusing, others grotesque, and all of them likely based on some grain of truth. Vampires were known to embellish, though most were not liars. They had heard something through the grapevine, and the story took on a life of its own as it grew and grew, until it was as fat and juicy as a peach in the summertime.

“Me? Well, I've died, murdered by the twin I'd not given a thought to since I was fourteen, conned the reaper into carrying me back across the Styx, been reincarnated into a new body, and travelled from the coast of Spain with my most hated enemy - and that's all in the last year, to say nothing of the past hundreds. Now don't you wish you'd been along for the ride?"

”If only to chronicle your misadventures! I must confess I have heard so many accounts of your death that I could write a book from that material alone," Pesha began, but as he was about the transition to his next thought, the doors swung open. He turned to look with the rest of them, and it took a great deal of restraint to not leap roaring from his seat. He met the gaze of Bedelia Chevealier head-on, and were it possible, he was sure his eyes could have burned holes into her head. His body visibly tensed, and for a moment he gripped the armrests with strength enough to crack them. Pesha forced relaxation lest he embarrass himself. He settled for an expression of cold neutrality, and let his imagination do the rest.

The two bantered for a time, but eventually the conversation moved back to his court.

”Well I imagine you'd heard that Pesha was here. He always was your favorite person.” Much to his pleasure, Pesha could hear the disdain dripping in her voice; at least she had not been expecting him as much as he had not been expecting her.

”To the contrary, mes amis, I hadn’t been informed of either of your presences. In fact no one mentioned either of you until I passed Constantin in the hall. Oui, it appears mon roi cher did not deem this information important for me to know.” It almost sounded like a threat. ”But it matters not, for now we are all united once more. How are you, my dear friend? It has been so long since we last saw each other, Kestrel and I thought for sure you were dead!” She strode to him and pecked him on the cheek, a gesture he returned through grit teeth. Oh, how deliciously good she was a playing the innocent! But Pesha had always found a way to shatter her theatrics before. Now would be no exception.

”Yes, it has been quite some time, has it not, Bedelia? No, I am not dead.” Pesha looked between the both of them with a plaintiff smile, but ultimately directed his attention to Bedelia. ”Funny, that seems like something you should know, does it not? You were always so good at sticking your nose in places it never belonged. Perhaps you’ve become forgetful, as very old as you are. Surely, there must be something that has slipped your mind. You have always had an eye for details, or, as the case may be, intentionally forgetting them,” he said smoothly through his sneer. He wanted to see her squirm a bit, though he doubted he would find satisfaction on that front. Targeting something so base as age was silly, but that didn’t keep it from feeling good. For one so vain as Bedelia it was an easy, low blow.

”Why, if I am very old, as you say, mon petit ami, that would make you positively ancient! If I do recall, you have quite a few years on me. As it be, I attempted to ascertain your whereabouts once we discovered you were missing, I even attempted to track you down! But to no avail. You were very good at hiding your tracks, evidently.”

”Ancient I may be, though thankfully I will look young forever. It is... difficult to say the same for others,” he goaded, eyes squinted above a cat-like smile. How old were you when you were turned, exactly?” Her narrowed eyes told him he had pricked her, but she recovered quickly with an unassuming laugh.

"Old enough to have intimate knowledge of another living body with evoking disdain, unlike some.” She circled behind him, menacingly. His smile soured. Pesha was far too used to jabs at his small stature and decided “inability” to find interest in certain aspects of human anatomy. It was easy to ignore usually, but, as he was rapidly remembering, Bedelia had a way of rattling him where others could not. "Though if you must know, I was 22, but as I recall you already knew that."

“Was 22 your age, or just as high as you could count?” The look on her face was priceless, the sound of snapping glass chiming like a victory bell. He soaked in his petty triumph, and was quite pleased when Kestrel intervened. It felt good to have the last laugh.

”Very well, my dear Bedelia, I'll bite. Why are you here?”

Pesha listened to the rest of their exchange in comfortable silence, not even raising an eyebrow at Bedelia’s bold request. There was a pang of jealousy there, of possessiveness. Ultimately, Pesha realized that Kestrel was no more his creature now for Bedelia to steal than he ever was; it did not stop his blood from running green, however. What was his once was always his, whether they be willing or not. Pesha kept his eyes on Kestrel, even as Bedelia left. He would be interested to see whether or not she could achieve the task she sought to complete, but what Bedelia lacked in raw power she made up for in cunning. It was likely the wretch would succeed with little more than a torn dress, if that. He could not have her dying on him just yet, in any case. Pesha still had plans for her, though exactly what those plans entailed he was not sure of yet. Finally, she was gone.

”You’ve always had a soft spot for strays. Just watch out for fleas.”


In the land of Gods and Monsters
I was an A n g e l
Living in the Garden of Evil

[KuntKake]

The brush under his toes cracked and caved into the frost. Snow clumped here and there, untouched by the forest floor for the majority of the season because of the blanket formed high above by the interlocking sea of branches and pine needles. The country of France was well known for their Alps, cliffy coasts and rolling fields of vineyards and lavender. Forests only made up about a quarter of the country’s agricultural makeup. This fact had always made the Russian nervous for their safety. Forests were few, and Mercia’s orders to remain hidden here were risky at best. But, then again, to hide in the underground of Paris was just as well, if not more-so a suicide attempt.
As Vilen walked, hands chilled at his side, breath hanging about his face in the bitter morning cold, he could imagine the sun trying, wrestling, to fight it’s rays through the tree branches and stream down to warm the ground again. The war over… the leeches dead and their people finally free. Absently, his thumb turned the band on his ring finger, his own collar. A tungsten band rimmed in the bone of his sister’s first lover- A vampire.
He missed his family dearly. His sister and nephews were all he had, with no wife or pups of his own. He had not written to them in many months. And since his departure from his temporary home to take up a position in this war, he hadn’t heard much from her either.
These thoughts, mixed with the scent of the pines and mingled with the sounds of the forest reminded him of the night he arrived…

After what happened in the tavern and on the street, he had chased after her into the night, the Jackal, the mistress of his desires, the woman of his heart. Vilen had hunted her like he hunted his targets for years under the cowl of shadows and the cloak of the wars. Her scent smothered the air, coated over every tree, and coaxed him deeper into the heart of the forest as she hunted. The hunter and the hunted. The unending tale, the fight for survival. It was what Vilen felt as he chased after the Jackal, to succumb to her eyes and demands, to be anything she desired of him so long as he was in her good graces… to demand another chance. And he would not be denied.
He had found her in the clearing; moonlight trickling over her hair, bleeding down her shoulders. Radiant, still and silent as the grave. She knew he was there, following her. When he finally came to her side, only then did she look to him sternly. He cast his glance away and inhaled deeply to steady himself for the question he had to ask, "I think we may not have made the best impressions. I understand I have... ignored a direct order, but Mercia... You do not understand what I went through staying there. I do not understand why. Why would you have asked that of me?"
Her expression leveled, though seemingly unchanged as she tilted her chin upward, addressing her soldier, “There is nothing in heaven nor hell more important than the were-beasts' continued existence. The leeches grow in number, manufactured blood drinkers. And we still rely on procreation. That was what you were supposed to do Vilen. Werewolves are more plentiful than any other breed. You could have found a female. Mated. Had children."
Vilen’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to her, exasperated as his hands came up to take her arms, "I know this. Believe me, I know. And do not doubt that I tried. I even left and traveled to find another. But I could not... I cannot. Not when the woman I want to mate with is standing right before me. Of all of us, Mercy, you have a profound understanding of what takes a pure, strong warrior. I cannot give myself to any woman. My offspring would be diluted with the imperfections of her nature. She must be a warrior. She must be born of it, bled of it. There are none so like this. And few I would devote my heart to, in time."
Mercia’s eyes, those stunning golden orbs, reminiscent of the sun itself, large and glassy as she looked at him with an innocence he recalled in the eyes of his own sister as she fell madly in love with the Devil himself without knowledge of it, blinked slowly, "I'm not a werewolf. I am the midnight Jackal, Vilen. And as far as I am aware, there are no other of my ancient breed in existence any longer. I cannot produce children." She paused in sudden thoughtfulness, and a smile curled up the corners of his lips as he watched her, "It has not occurred to me that I might be able to procreate. Nevertheless, I cannot and do not breed. I lead."
"And thus why I have come back to you!” he smirked to hide his disheartened lie, “I know this. And I know, undoubtedly, I cannot mate with another. It would be dishonest to the mother of my pups, and they would never amount to the warriors they could be." He was hesitant, but gently brushed back her hair behind her ear, "I have known this from the moment I met you."
She tilted her head and quirked a brow, "Naturally. I am the best warrior among our kind, and certainly of the females." The Russian could not help but chuckle, pulling the corner of his lips with his teeth as he looked down. His hands shook as he held her, out of fear for his life, and out of nervousness of being so close to her, again, "Then, we are forgiven? I may stay, and give you all of me?"
It was clear he had not said the right thing as her hand came up to snatch his jaw firmly, "Give yourself to me? I am your queen Vilen. You don't give yourself to me." He glared as she pulled him down, closer to her face with a hiss, "I own your very soul."
"More than you know." he growled in reply, his voice deep from his chest, lusting and desperate. His hand pushed against her lower back, the other cupping the base of her skull with his fingers entangled in her tresses. He dipped his head down to her, capturing her snarl against his lips. Forceful at the start, he felt Mercia stiffen and he softened. She did not retaliate, she did… nothing. His heart pounded in his ears, blood flushing his face at the realization of this moment. He hesitated, and tested the waters further by running his hand slowly up her back.


Half expecting the impact to have been Mercia’s hand, Vilen was surprised to have been knocked back and away from the Jackal by something else. When the Russian opened his eyes again, he was sprawled on his side with his face smeared in the mud under their boots, a pounding at the back of his head. His head tilted up to meet the imposing rage of the Leech King, blade at the ready as he smiled with a seething anger.
Vilen’s eyes flared red as he stood, pulling his own blade from it’s place at his hip, the steel ringing at the swiftness of his action. It was a fight he wanted? The Russian would ever so gladly oblige. Not only was his pride wounded, but also his embarrassment before his Queen was enough to make his blood boil in his veins.
Their fight had been brief, Kestrel an exceptional swordsman. His age gave him strength and speed beyond that of the Were, and therefore the upper hand. Vilen was thankful for Mercia’s intervention. He took the opportunity to retrieve a silencer, in the form of a rock, while the two exchanged words. Once Kestrel was briefly incapacitated, and oh, how it felt so bloody good to do that, he begged Mercia silently to let him finish the fiend off for good. How easy it would have been, in the moment, to pull the heart from his chest and crush it, to behead him then and there and never see the devil rise again! But, she shook her head. Selfish questions begged of her, but she turned away without a second thought or glance, leaving the men alone, bloodied, dirty, and angry.


When the leech came around, Vilen was still there, pacing out his hurt and anger. He heard the other man groan and snapped his head towards him, snarling, "What right do you have to just come here and demand dominance?!"
Kestrel laughed, spitting back as he stood slowly, careful. It was clear he was still dizzy from the blow, "What right do YOU have to kiss your queen and presume that you could mean anything to her? You are worthless vermin, and I have killed a hundred thousand of your kind. Just. Like. You. You are nothing!"
"Am I? Oh, so you're telling me you watched everything then?” Vilen stormed closer, eyes glazing crimson, “I've kissed my queen and she did not kill me! She forgave my forfeiting of orders, and yet I still remain! Am I really worth nothing, Leech King? She so willingly protected me! And chose to fight you."
The King ‘tisk’ed as he laughed with a stretch, "Ah, but I tried to kill one of her own, and still I stand, alive, unscathed even. She protected you, yes, but don't you think she would have tried a little harder to destroy me if I threatened something that she truly cared about, and not just one of her precious assets, another healthy breeder?"
Vilen narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms in pause, "Of course she didn’t kill you over this. We both understand Mercia well enough to know she wants you on the battlefield, bloody and thriving in your shared element." he smirked, "Do you always follow her?"
Feigning surprise, Kestrel’s head snapped back towards the Russian in his reply, "She wants me alive? Bloody hell, if you believe that, no wonder you think she likes you. And I wasn't watching her, boy. I was watching you. I wanted to make sure I was right about you, and what a fool you are."
Vilen’s eyes wandered over the man for a long moment, thinking as his eyes absently began to cool back to their hazel colour of origin, watching him brush off every last spec of dirt off his clothing. He smiled smugly to himself as he lifted his chin, “You'd only be watching if you thought I was worth something, or it gave you an advantage. You, Kestrel Paradin, King of lies... Only look out for yourself. So what have you to gain from this? If I am /nothing/, then why waste your time here?"
"King of lies, I like that. And yes, you're right - self-interested is the only reasonable way to go about living. And you are nothing, as you are ... but I see potential for you to be more interesting than that." He straightened his clothes and smiled, just to piss Vilen off. "Not quite so stupid as you look, eh?"
His eye narrowed as he shook his head. Unraveling his arms from across his chest, Vilen brushed past him, "I am not interested in your ideas, Leech. Belittle someone else to feed your inflated ego. We're finished here. At least I have enough confidence to express my desire for her."
He didn’t look back as Kestrel called after him, “We'll see what's left of that confidence when she's through with you!”

The memory tasted sour on his palette, his frontal lobe aching from the grimace conveyed on his features for the last few minutes as he lived in his head. He hadn’t seen Mercia since, avoiding her very presence like the plague, insisting to keep his distance lest he embarrass himself further. Besides, the distance would give her a chance to reflect as well, or so he told himself.

The weeks that had followed were uneventful, yet important. They had made excellent headway in to France, and were able to avoid most villages and unwanted encounters. The camp had been rattled by the battle that had taken place, and the carnival moved coldly through the country without setting up it’s tents and sideshows again. Vilen believed it was because many began to realize how unprepared they were, and it begged to question how they’d fair in the event of another attack. He’d yet to bring it up to Noora, but it was clear everyone could use some training.

One in particular, in fact, had pursued him for it. After the fight, his coat had fallen to more damages than preferred, and he sought out the tailor fellow in hopes he could use his services. What he had found was less so of the man he had initially met, but a shell of a man. Smelling of alcohol and looking like he had not slept in a week’s time, Vilen was reminded of himself at far too many occasions in his life upon losing someone dear to him… And who have you lost?
The exchange had not gone as planned, but he couldn’t argue it wasn’t for the better. He agreed to train the man in the art of combat, in exchange for the repairs to his coat. They started rather immediately, considering how much the gentleman knew of combat (to be frank, nothing whatsoever). He had a lot to learn before Paris, and time was not on their side.
Bernardo was a fast learner, impeccable with his diligence. He was determined, compelled to maintain accuracy in all senses of the term, in each thing taught to him. A perfectionist after the Russian’s heart. The soldier was pleased, for he had not the opportunity such as this in many, long years. Bernardo had chosen fencing, which wasn’t Vilen’s first choice, but having considered the options, and the man’s lack of skill, it would be a nice beginning. The gentleman’s sport would be a door to endless possibilities and a stepping-stone on the structure of basic combat.
They trained daily, early in the morning, and sometimes again before the evening. Over the course of the two weeks, Bernardo had shown considerable progress. For what other purpose, other than defense, he was doing this, Vilen did not inquire. It was not of his business. But he knew there was something else there, beneath the surface. It was the same thing that sometimes grasped the other man’s attention in the middle of their match; it was what he went to Maeve to drink about, it was what he ran from. He hoped what he planned to teach the tailor today would put a nail in the coffin of whatever ailed him.

Another few minutes of walking and he found himself at their clearing. It was small, not more than thirty feet across in any direction, but it was large enough, and secluded well, to accomplish their goals. Vilen came early, in order to get his personal routine finished and his mind prepared for the lesson he gave in the aftermath.
He tossed their weapons aside and kept the one on his belt. After shedding the layers on his torso, he began a quiet meditation to clear his mind before his simulated battle. The forest was quiet, the air was cold and crisp. When he began to move into his pre-selected movements, he was ready. Each block he made with his body, and every parry with the blade, became increasingly weighted by the thoughts that escaped the confines of his well-guarded mind. Preference was always given to a clear mind when training, as to better identify where errors had been made. But, the smokey visage of the Leech King’s face before him would not shake. Each thrust was an attempt to breech his ticking heart, but he was just a moment too late, an inch too far away. Vilen tried harder, moved faster, anything he could to catch the wicked devil that threatened the life of his Queen, and the happiness she deserved without him. He with the snake-forked tongue, the conniving mouth, the molten eyes. He would bring him down, if not today, some day. He’d be the hero. He’d show Mercia… he’d show them all.

Vilen's mind snapped back to reality at the sound of an echoed call. Drawn back from his thoughts, his pace slowed, the swing of his sword suddenly lethargic in it's parry. He breathed deeply, catching his breath as he listened again. After a moment of silence, he straightened and narrowed his eyes, straining to hear. He didn't have to wait long before the ground shuddered beneath his feet and echos of chaos began to roll over the air and between the trees.
Dropping his weapon aside, the werebeast moved off towards the sound of destruction with haste. What threat could possibly be causing such things? Loud, thundering snaps, the cracks of tree limbs shattering under great weight. The closer he encroached, the more hesitant his approach became. With each crack and smash of wood, each tear from the earth beneath the soles of his boots, Vilen could hear the grunting sobs of the culprit. His hair stood on end in the shadows of the trees, slipping around the naked limbs and pine needled draperies to come to see... his Lieutenant.
He watched with bated breath, the blonde raven beast hurling herself into the bark of each trunk with her fists. Vilen's expression softened as she broke under the weight of some terrible pain. The woman was hurt, it was clear before him. As her pain began to manifest and flow like an open faucet, her attacks, too, became more fluid and frequent. She took her aggression out into the trees around her, each one a victim to her woe. The longer the Russian soldier watched, the more she showed him just the sort of fighter she was. As a teacher, a part of his viewing gave him opportunity to examine her power, style preference, and skill set. In the end, she was better to not lead from the heart. Her attacks, though skilled, were clumsy, and she would soon hurt herself if she were to continue.

Maeve began to cool down, her anger tamed for the moment. As she took her time to breathe, Vilen found himself careening his gaze more, moving forward tentatively until he was nearly in the newly made clearing. Why he was so drawn to her now, he did not know. Her aggression, perhaps, or the primal need to help her. Whatever the case, his body moved forward, and he could barely stop himself from approaching her moreso as the tears began to fall from her eyes. The cry that burst forth from her chest was raw, pleading for release of the anguish within. Vilen had seen this once before, and having seen the destruction Maeve could perform before tears, he dared not let her show him with them.
He found himself placing his warm hands against her arms, pulling her up and into his chest as his arms wrapped around her tightly. Upon recognition of who it was that was holding her, she began to struggle and he only held firmer, "You're going to hurt yourself if you continue this way. If you have to punch something, berate on me. I can take it."
His offer had been met by a scoff, a laugh, and an empty threat. He narrowed his eyes as she continued, struggling to be free as she did so, "If I didn't know any better, Mr. Lagunov, I'd assume you were enjoying this much more than you should. That besides, I'm done here. If you had let me finish mourning in peace, I would've returned to the camp and to my duties."
He smirked, despite himself, at her next comment and shook his head, "Believe me, I'm not." He dropped his smirk, perhaps not the brightest thing to say, and sighed, "Maeve, the fact remains that anyone outside of myself who had witnessed this would have gone to tell Noora you're not fit for your roll. You're in pain! There is more beneath that surface and you're going to continue to feel it for a long time." he put it plainly.
"Right... like you won't tell Noora," she hissed.
"I wont. Why would I? I know what you're capable of. I've been watching you for these last two weeks. You're meant for it. You've earned it. But this... Is going to kill you if you don't release it. It will take hold of you, rattle you. You will see them when you don't want to, they will hinder your ability to focus. Am I right?" As she started to calm, he locked his jaw and rubbed her back, "How many?" he asked softly. When Maeve stiffened and looked up to him with a frowned confusion, the wolf looked her firm in the eyes, "You heard me. How many people, Maeve?" It was a bold, if not seemingly rude question.
"Since when? Since I started hurting or since I was born?" she snapped at him, "The massacre: countless. There was a fair share of faces I knew dead, even fewer than that was anyone I could say I cared about. Since then, people I'd grown truly attached to, two. Pathetic, I'm aware, but I don't love easily."
Vilen inhaled slowly against her defiance, lowering his gaze as she expelled her answer with a wicked tongue. He nodded as she explained, and looked back up between his lashes, his hold on her loosening, "Two is more than enough. One is too many, alone." he murmured. Tilting his head he brushed her hair back politely, "Their deaths are not your fault. Do you understand me? Everyone has their time, like it or not, deserved or not. Destiny, fate, or what have you... we all are marked with our day. You cannot stop it. You cannot bring them back. There is nothing more to do or say that will alter time." He looked away and pursed his lips, "I know. I've been here. And I've been here, watching this in others, over and over again. This is nature. You're not wrong to feel this way. But believe me, you have to move past it."
Vilen's arms loosened to hold her back at arm's length, "Ghosts will haunt as they may. But it is your choice to face them or to ignore them. Don't bottle it up. That's my advice. Tell me. Tell Noora. Tell Bernardo, or whoever you see fit. You're capable of so much." he smirked and tilted his head towards her wreckage, "Just... let it out. But, not like this." he shook his head and chuckled softly.
"You're forgetting who you're talking to, P-... Vilen. I have an easy three centuries on your age and you act like I haven't bore witness to the death of loved ones before. You act like I'm a child in need of being told about this like I've never stood in this position or yours. I have seen and faced Death before and he isn't kind, nor is he cruel. He lurks about us every day, and every day I wonder how much sooner will I be the one to meet his grasp. So long as I die fighting, I'll be fine. Regardless of that, I have been using this as a practice for so long it did not occur to me the ritual has to come to an end." Her eyes bore in to his with a burning malice. His own narrowed and his lips thinned as he tensed his jaw, "Had I known that being this far from camp someone still would've bared witness, I wouldn't have bothered. Next time, I'll wait until it's the massacre for the Templars than our own people. At least then the victims will be worth my effort and keep me focused."

She turned then, walking back towards the camp briskly. Every decision rapidly confronted him. Speak? Don’t? Speak stupidly? It aggravated him, agitated him, and he looked up to the branches and sky above him as he finally cracked under the pressure, "What is your problem?!" he shook his head and threw an arm out, "From the moment I arrived here, I've been spat on by you at every instance. From attempting to help you, to my decisions to help our comrades, to my relationships with those around us. Hell, you even came to help me and then it was still a nuisance. So what is it about me that has put a thorn in your side?" he walked up to her, looming over her in height, standing just a little too close, "I've done nothing to you, or have I not been aware of it? Please, do go on! Tell me!"
His put his hands on his bare hips, the cold beginning to finally come across his torso and in to his skin, "All I wanted was to help you. Sure, you're correct. Perhaps I was... not considerate of your age. Very well, I'm sorry I patronized, criticized you. But, from my point of view, maybe that was all you needed to hear. Maybe, that one thing I said could have made all the difference. For some people it is, for some it's not. You don't have to take any of my words to heart, but I'd still care for you even if you didn't! I'd still watch out for you, protect you and..." He stopped and blinked a few times before looking away, "Nevermind it. The fact is that I'm not leaving. And having been in enough conflicts in my life, I know that we need to make a deal. Now. Not tomorrow, today. Right now. Because whatever this is... it's not going to work. And I won't be held responsible when our issues end up hurting someone else."
Maeve turned to him with a protected stance, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, "I have a few problems with you. How about the fact of your previous history that we already discussed? Why are you here, Vilen? To gain the graces of Noora and Mercia? You sing my praises, but tell me why I shouldn't be wary of you? Why should I trust you won't speak of my weakness to Noora? Won't it get you the position you so desire?"
She paused, and Vilen’s eyes widened slightly with confusion. How had she come to think he wanted to be in her position? What had he done to cause her to think she could be replaced by him, that he was somehow better than her?
"When you look at me, who are you really seeing, Vilen? Do you see me, or do you see a ghost? Isn't them you'd rather protect, care for, and allow me to finish the statement if I'm right in assuming you were going to say 'love'. Do us both a favor, and authentically look at me. Until you really see me, I cannot trust you in that you aren't here to take my position because I cannot trust your judgment when it comes to me."
His expression fell from defensive to neutral, to confusion, to something akin to embarrassment. He sighed and slowly looked down as she continued to speak, his hand drawing up over his face and in to his hair as he combed it back with his fingers. "Any trespasses I've felt you've made against me, forgiven. I don't care. What I do care about is doing my duty. How can I trust you'll do the same and not be a threat?"

"Maeve..." He hesitated and let his mouth hang ajar slightly before closing it. It took him no strength to speak the truth of the matter on the first case, "Lieutenant, I've never wanted to take your position. I've never wanted a rank among this war. I've been bred for combat as a soldier since my childhood. I was enrolled in a military school, I was sent to the front lines of war after mortal war. I've been a soldier, a militant. I've been an officer, a lieutenant, a general. I've been a Capitan. I've been things in between that I'd rather not speak of. Believe this, against anything else... I have never had a desire to usurp you or your position. I respect anyone who has a title, no matter the role. If they are worthy of it, can maintain and control it, they deserve it. You have. Noora saw to that herself, or she wouldn't have chosen you. I know this for a fact.” he hesitated and turned away to pace as he spoke, "The reason I'm here, Maeve, is by chance. I defected from the military a long time ago. After fighting for a few hundred years, you start to get sick of the blood, the crying... the nightmares don't turn off, those you trusted aren't really who they seem. I'd had enough. I took on small jobs here and there, assassinations to keep me of use and sound mind. The truth is I came out here to catch someone... and happened upon the carnival. I had felt something leading me here, and little did I know it would have been Mercia." he smiled, his eyes distant for a moment, "Noora asked me to stay. I've known her as long as I've known the Jackal. I wasn't supposed to be here, but she asked it of me. How could I say no? You need me, and you cannot deny that." He looked back to Maeve with a shrug. Their military was a joke, in the kindest sense of the word.
For a long moment, he looked upward and thought in silence. He could see his breath on the air again and watched it dissipate into the air, "As for... you." he paused and looked back to the raven near to him, waiting, "When I... look at you, I see so many ghosts... I see lovers; I see friends, and comrades I lost to one betrayal or sword, or another. But I also see you." His body moved forward as he pushed off the bark, "I see you, a soldier, and a lover, a fighter, a woman, a beast. Lieutenant, I don't throw around words I don't feel I truly believe in, anymore... such examples being 'love'. I've lost enough to understand that feelings and words are very different things. Dare I say that I do feel for you, I cannot lie to you and say that it's anymore than admiration, perhaps even desire... but I'd be lying if I said I 'loved'." he cleared his throat as he stood before her, "I do not know what that is." he looked to her and made a face to lighten the situation, "Does that... give you a better sense of what I am?"
His Lieutenant looked him over, expressionless, silent. He became slightly nervous under her gaze until she finally gave her verdict, "You're a soldier, through and through. I hadn't expected you to tell me much more than that. Turns out, I'm right. Since you seem to see me in the same light almost exclusively now, I'll go ahead and take my leave. You're dismissed, Soldier." She turned and started to walk away again, but paused. "Is that all?"
Vilen watched her eyes, her hair, her body language. Something about it all still made him think twice. Something about it all made him question himself and all he had said. And something about it all made him feel a heat inside his chest. He listened to her final pass of judgement and frowned, but nodded slowly. There was no malice in her tone, no bite to her words. They just... were.
"I uh-" he paused and then sighed, "I do not feel like we really solved anything, but if this is what it is then, yes. I believe that's all. All I ask is you give me the chance to earn your trust, if you still question mine." he let his arms fall to his side, his fingers of his left hand absently fingering the band on his ring finger. He turned slightly and shuddered at the cold, "Bernardo's waiting for me, I suspect."
He turned and hesitated again. Something pulled him back again and yet, was there more to say? He couldn't well tell her he saw so many women in her face, from Mercia's to his sister's. He couldn't tell her, or anyone, how much he loved Mercia and it was the only thing ever on his mind. So what more could he say? How long before he was going to break?
"Maeve, you're a good fighter. We... If you want, I mean. If you'd like... to spar, just find me. I'd like that. And, I'm sure I can be the challenge you're looking for." he smiled back to her over his shoulder.
She cracked him a grin in agreement, leaving them to their own devices, a little clearer, and perhaps a little less forlorn.

-------

That evening, the same couldn’t be said. He had been tasked with the scouting of the Quarter Pigalle. The most vile, filthy landscape of Paris. And, no better was it that he was tasked to do it with a man he had initially hoped he could find relevance in. It turned out that Comrade Bell was not the sort of Russian Vilen could find comfort in.

Sitting at the bar table, his leg resting over the knee of the other, arms crossed over his chest as he stared out over the establishment with a scowl of annoyance, the smaller avian beast counted his winnings, rambling on about nonsense. Vilen had spent the whole evening working through the most scum and villainy he’d witnessed in some many years, while the other bedroom hopped, picking purses as he went. In such a place as this, he could only imagine the diseases…
Blitzen toddled on over his prizes, muttering finally a clever thought for the evening, “These are gifts from vampires to these women, even the harlots are spies in this town, surely I am not the first beast to find himself in brothels of Quarter Pigalle. One must wonder why the French vampires would recruit lowly mortals, assuming a choice was given.”
Vilen couldn’t give the game away, for he already knew the most likely answer. He hoped the other man could figure it out. He took a long drink from his glass and let his amber eyes compliment the amber of the liquid back at him. His fingers rested attentively on the pistol under his coat, more prepared than the other man appeared to be. This bar was not the safest place, in the heart of the city.
Seeming to have figured out a pleasing answer to his own question, the beast raised his voice as he began to clean up his findings, “As you can see, I gained much more from the whore besides sloppy foreplay, do tell what your time in the Red Light District has produced Vilen?” The soldier’s grimace deepened almost into a scowl. He could not wait to get out of here, “I see you spending quite a lot of time with the other Bird, surely your time spent with Maeve isn’t so precious that you refused to enjoy the lovely women of this quarter?”
Instantly his expression changed. A blink of surprise and a purse of his lips gave a small amount of game away. Clearing his throat, annoyance began to settle back in as he looked over the room, “My time spent with the Lieutenant is of strict business. She’s had some issues with my presence here, since my arrival. I’ve merely been attempting to rectify those misinterpretations.”
“I jest comrade,” he said with a sneer, “don’t let my petty curiosity bother you. Curiosity kills the fish they say. Now, continue..”
Vilen detested the man already… “While I respectfully chose a different tactic in acquiring information, than that of the bedrooms of women here, I have come to the conclusion, too, that this city of Parisians is not to be trusted. Every being in this Quarter is out for their own gain…” he took a sideways glance over his comrade, “Much to your liking, I’ve noticed.”
“Besides, it is also one of the most mortal populated centres. These beings are being used heavily, frequently. What information could they possibly be obtaining from a city void of werebeasts, I do not know. What threat do they fear but themselves? It perhaps may merely be that very thing alone, but it stills appears to be too concentrated. It is like they have been waiting for something like us…”
He tilted his head in the silence, the soundtrack of the room beginning to just turn in to noise in his ears. He narrowed his eyes as his attention directed again to his partner, asking in a deeply darkened tone, “What else have you observed while watching me?”

[The Almighty Loud]

The open air was crisp; at least when measured against the heavy damp blanket that he had grown accustomed to within captivity. He could still feel the thick stain of blood that lingered on every trace of each inhale he took while confined to his imprisonment, and it muddled his senses. What had been no more than a day of freedom felt like fleeting hours as he carefully wandered the foreign setting he had found himself in after his fresh escape. Colossal as he was, Emerson was never adept in blending in. His massive stature was clothed in a dark makeshift cloak he managed to procure somewhere along his escape route. The shrouding fabric rippled at the wind’s call and aided in diluting his bestial scent. His stomach churned as his eyes peered out from under the hood of the concealing garb to witness what had escaped with him. To no avail, his fingers did their best to pry at and loosen what he guessed was leather infused with some kind of metal. The full armor reeked of his captors, but as antagonizing as the leaching stench was, Reigns had it and his cloak to thank for his camouflage.

He did his best to further remain mantled in the shadows of the city. Numbed as his senses were, it was without question that he was surrounded by his greatest foe. His teeming rage, born from the torture he had outlived, begged every fiber of his body to engage the vile beings he now walked among. Though his fury was fully roused, his senses were dulled, and his body far too weak to take on such numbers. Wherever he was, this city was overrun. It was either paranoia or common strategic intelligence that drove Emerson to break from the bustling road and head away from more crowded areas. In a stroke of luck, his ailing nose caught the fleeting scent of his own kind. Suddenly his stride gained purpose. The deeper into the city he traversed, the number of his enemies near seemed to dwindle. As the maze of streets grew less populated, Emerson threw caution to the wind and increased his pace. As he drew closer and closer, the single familiar scent burst into a blend of curious odors.

There was more than one Moon-Called, and it seemed they were outnumbered. He doubled his pace at the first hint of blood. His sprint forced him to draw greater breaths to power the exertion, and allowed him to better sketch in the scene. Among the collection of odors lingered the faint smell of a human. Was this a desperate hunt that landed his fellow kin in jeopardy? The most pronounced of the smells in the air, without question, was the kindling aroma of fire. The scents teasing his nostrils were now an almost physical presence; each smell practically leaving a visible trail for him to follow.

Just as Emerson felt short of breath, he rounded the last corner to find a threatening scene. Dead center in the street, Emerson steadied his gaze down a nameless alley to find the bobbing spectacle of torches. His massive shoulders heaved in his breathlessness as he waited, patiently gathering the mixture of variables. His veteran assessment, coupled with what his nose had already deciphered of the scene, painted a grim outcome for the four gearhearts involved. This was not a scene of battle. It was a massacre. One of his own lay dead and motionless in their pooling blood. The leather of his restraining gauntlets screamed under the pressure of Emerson's tightening fists, then settled into a crunching whine.The other were-beast and human victim were alive, though maybe only for so long as they were entertainment to the hoodlums cornering them.

The devilish creatures, gabbling in their native tongues, appeared too engrossed in their sadistic game to be bothered with even the slightest glance away to catch the onlooking Reigns. They danced around their victims, slapping, kicking, and spitting, until one produced a long, sharp blade. The metal caught the glint of their torches, piquing Emerson's attention. With little subtlety or penitence, the knife-wielder seized the leg of the living were-beast and cut deeply; a bone-chilling sound accompanying it. The victim screamed for mercy, but won none as her leg was rent from the knee down. Emerson’s face was passively contemplative, free from either horror or anger, as he formulated the demise of the hellish creatures. It was as a second member of the torturous affair crouched down to cauterize the fresh wound that Emerson moved to the mouth of the alley. Like a vast, ominous storm cloud emerging over the horizon, the seething Reigns struck toward the gathered bodies with little discretion.

The fools hadn't the faintest idea what breed of calamity they brought upon themselves.

His haunting stride wasn't long hidden as one by one each of the four vampires encountered the audible saunter of Emerson. Each slow step invited a measure of apprehensive anxiety. Without clear intentions, the vampires were left to the devices of their own imaginations on what laid in wait for them. It was only until distance could no longer disguise his sheer immensity that the vampires begin to quietly bargain for an ally in the great being that approached.

The colossal rage incarnate paused a mere arm's length away from the nearest vampire. His left hand confidently arose to his neck before it loosened the knot of his cloak. Each of the vampires glanced to the others. Worry could be found in some eyes; thrill and eagerness in others. The vampire liable for the idea of burning the wounded were-beast straightened from his hunch. He was the furthest from Emerson, but soon made his rank known as he stood shoulder to shoulder with the closest of the four, torch still in hand. The two spoke at a low volume, but didn't find it necessary to whisper. A pair of grins were traded at the end of their last remark, but the suspect smiles abruptly faded as Emerson's cloak fell.

The vampire's dancing fire brought light to the intensity of the body before them. The air itself seemed to almost shudder as his titanic shoulders rolled forward. Emerson's face brokered no clemency. Never before had these four creatures witnessed the palpable fury that was saturated in every feature. His sealed lips would not give way under the perpetual scowl they held. His flaring nose worked in tandem with the heavy breath that coursed from his diaphragm and left little question of his wrathful intent. His golden irises, under a heavily furrowed brow, burned with a fiery passion built on the rising fear that fell over his enemies, sharp and hot. He scanned each pair of eyes that rested on him before rapidly locking on the torch-wielder's stuttering breath. The subtle action caused the vampire to stumble on his gulp of air. However, with a clearing of his throat, he regained what little composure he could and ventured to speak with the clearly fuming Emerson.

“ - “

The vampire had barely uttered his first syllable before his hand was engulfed by Emerson's. In an instant, a shriek of agony ripped from the vampire’s throat as, bone by bone, his hand was crushed around the torch it held. He fell to a knee under the growling Reigns as the ally at his side attempted to pry the giant's grip away. The feeble measure of aiding his fellow torturer gained him the regrettable attention of Emerson. He stared in terror as he was lifted bodily from the ground, first at his still screaming comrade then into the calloused eyes of Reigns. In a frantic display of desperation he clawed and bit at the glove that surrounded Emerson's locked hand. The flexed arm of Reigns exploded to a full extension, bringing the threads of the vampire's attire to their limit as Reigns maintained his firm clasp. The sudden jolt would have seemed rather ineffectual, had it not been for the savage noise of the vampire's neck and spine splitting in two.

Almost playfully, Emerson released the slumped body into the lap of the gearheart that still remained under his yet tightening fist. The action did not prove random when the vampire endeavored to peer down at his fallen friend. In the same instant his head lowered the barbarous Reigns drove the open flame of the torch into the center of the creature’s face. The muffled roar of the flames feeding filled the alleyway. The scream reached even further; taking on a visceral state of agony as the vampire’s skin cracked and sizzled. Emerson, now with a tight grip upon the back of the vampire's skull, compressed his arms, almost unhindered by any resistance. As the torch pierced the melted face of his adversary, all signs of life ceased.

Without ceremony, Emerson relieved his grip to let the kneeling body collapse face-down, driving the torch shaft fully through the skull. The body of his first victim twitched, without doubt already healing from the severe break his spinal column had sustained. Evil intentions dwelt in Emerson's reaching hand, but his action paused at the beating of quick steps closing in.

His head snapped up in time to catch a full laceration across the face from the only female of the group. Her blade ran red with his blood, cascading a new layer of blood over the old. Her momentum carried her safely out of range of his spinning back fist. A bit of luck he promised to not afford her again. The woman hissed as her shoulders dropped with the spreading of her arms. While she prepped for her next move, Emerson looked past his shoulder to quickly gauge the flanking threat of the last standing male. The glance left him confident the visibly distraught vampire behind him would not find the courage to attack. At least just yet.

The sound of footfalls once again grabbed him, and as before Emerson was without enough time to react, this time receiving a deep gash in his neck. His effort to catch the vampire’s retreating body proved frivolous, his hands closing on nothing but the empty air. The balance of confidence shifted in her favor and she smiled, her fangs glistening silver-blue in the glow of the moon.

"Death has found you tonight, mongrel," she gloated while Emerson clasped his hand against his gaping wound. The vampire's words rang hollow to him, a boast made for her sake rather than his.

In an act of contempt, Emerson baited his enemy with a simple lean of his head; exposing the gushing wound, and begging for her to try again. She erupted into a sprint, eager for the victory of the killing blow. Emerson was docile as she swiftly closed the length between herself and his throat, biding his time. It was as the vampire's muscles contracted and drove her body upwards into a powerful leap that the veil of performance was dropped. At the dip of his non-dominant shoulder, accompanied by a sprawling lunge, Emerson's open hand countered the vampire’s momentum at the expense of her life. With a resounding crunch, the devastating impact proved too great for her body to withstand, and her delicate chest folded around his palm. He could feel the instrumentation of her mechanical heart breaking around the interruption of his fingers as her body slithered off. Before her lifeless torso could sink to the ground her chin fell into the beast's cradling palm.

Reign's steadied his murderous gaze on the only vampire who remained upright. Partly due to his failure to outright perforate a clean hole through her body, and agitated by lesions she had left, Reigns found a sure grip around her jawline before prying her head straight off the neck. A swinging head in his blood drenched grip, he stalked the nearly rejuvenated fiend that rested face-down among the mess of his torched victim. His knee found the gearheart's spine, inspiring a gasp of pain. Emerson dropped his first trophy on to his resting cloak to free his hand. Calculated, it took minimal effort to wrench his new victim’s head one hundred and eighty degrees. A petrified expression set upon the poor creature's face before tendons, bones, and blood vessels gave way to the pull of Reigns. He took a moment to examine the skull before he tossed it alongside the first discarded head.

While he studied the charred crown at his side in search of way to pluck it from the shoulders that it leaned from, the distant sounds of vomit spilling across stone wrinkled Emerson's nose. The final vampire showed little threat throughout the entirety of his rampage, and now demonstrated yet another layer of his thin hide. Feeling no urgency, Emerson took his time to scour the torched vampire once more for a proper prize. With marginal effort he tore the body open at the chest before plucking out the metallic heart and claiming it as his own, tossing it over to roll next to the collected heads. With three demons absented from the world and one trembling at his mere glare, Reigns moved to assess the true victims of this bloody event. His hardened eyes softened in sorrow as they traveled across the beaten and shredded body of the fallen were-beast.

The shallow breathing of the only human pulled him from paying his last respects. Her face was masked in dried blood save for the burning trails of tears that ran down each side. Her crimson stained hands were tightly clasped around her throat. A deep wound she had not suffered at the hands of vampires, but his own kin. It was hopeless. She far too gone to be saved. Before she could delay the inevitable and prolong her suffering, the giant Reigns offered what little comfort he had and took hold of hands; pulling them free of her neck and allowing the last of her life spill freely. Her worried - betrayed? - eyes glossed over soon after.

His towering body attentively passed over the human to finally address the survivor of the vampire's attack, but as he took position a series of recognized metal clicks nagged him. His stare traveled up to find the barrel of a gun only a few feet away. The weapon quivered at the command of the cowardly arm that possessed it. What power Reigns lacked in the situation was overruled by the fear he had over the threatening man. Previously, the only evidence of Emerson having a voice was an array of grunts and growls; so as his low voice rang, he was sure he would have the vampire’s undivided attention.

"Do make it count, gearheart." Reigns lifted himself from the ground to watch the barrel reflect his rise. "For if I stand after your final shot, the carnage you've witnessed here will not hold a candle to what awaits you." He couldn't be sure if the gunman even understood his words.

"Stand down and you could live this night, and leave in peace."

WIthout so much as a nod of comprehension the vampire lowered his weapon and pounced into a quick dash. His chosen pathway led him around Emerson, but just as he rounded the were-beast, his throat fell into the grip of a crushing hand.

"Pieces, gearheart… You will leave in pieces." The spiteful words ended with force as Emerson clenched his jaw and sent the vampire's flailing body to crash into the unforgiving stone below. Silence reigned, and into that darkness the vampire's consciousness fell.

What felt like an endless swim amongst the void of his mind was actually a mere handful of minutes. As light seeped into the vampire’s prying eyes, a surge of pain soon followed. He did best to feel out the origin of his misery, but the mess of agony was too great to accurately sift through. He did his best to kick his legs and crawl out of the perdition he awoke to, but further investigation painted a far more gruesome truth. Three of four limbs were torn clean off. In place of the missing appendages were the brutalized bodies of each of his partners that had somehow been crudely fastened to his remaining body by long pieces of dirty cloth. Leaving him but one arm to crawl, the Hammer of Dawn revealed himself once more, crouching to meet the vampire's timid, pain-ridden stare.

"It appears my mercy is fleeting these days, but be sure to acknowledge this isn't good fortune, gearheart. You owe your life to me, and now that life is with purpose. Crawl." Emerson flicked his leather covered fingers as he shifted himself out of his victim's direct view. "Tell all your wicked kin that Emerson Reigns is free, and that he continues his work."

The vampire's first few squirms nearly broke Emerson's stone-like scowl as he collected and wrapped up the two heads, a single metallic heart, and three limbs. The surviving beast began to stir, cooing softly with distant echoes of discomfort.

"Be still." Was all Reigns afforded the were before hoisting her upon his shoulder as gently as he could manage. He squatted once more to gather the larger, lifeless frame of his other bestial member. He looked back as he positioned the two bodies to meet some measure of comfort, and found the vampire had managed to slither rather far, considering his state.

"You will heal in time, as all those who embrace immortality do. At least most of you. I'm afraid even the endless reach of time will not wash away the horror your eyes've witnessed." Emerson's throat lowered his pitch as his smooth words transformed into a growl. His eyes lowered to scan over the loathsome attire he wore before continuing, "I offer you this council… Once you speak of what has happened here, best take your own life. For one day I will find you again, and soon after, so too shall death."

With his closing advice, Reigns thrust himself into the air, just high enough to catch a single foot on the edge of the lowest building that overlooked the alley.

Aimless in his direction his nose sifted through the ambient scents in search of an allied shelter.

"I do not require the charity of your shoulder."

Emerson, choosing not to respond as he invested his attention in what resembled the noise of a struggle in the distance.

"Did you not hear me? I am capable of moving on my own." The she-wolf's tone increased in volume to pry her demand further.

Emerson peered down to her healing limb to find it was nearing it's full recovery, "Soon." He spoke dryly. "I do not question your resilience, but no matter the resolve that beats in your heart, your brittle bones need your patience to regain strength."

Her pride seemed to surrender at that. A long sigh filled the space with protest, but no resistance. Once again the echo of ricocheting metal bit at Emerson's ear. His stride quickened.

"In the alley, you spoke against the vampires as if we were still at war. Continuing your work to purge the world of their species, if I recall." The immobilized beast chimed behind his shoulder.

"Aye." He retorted with a semblance of annoyance while he remained fixated on pinpointing the sporadic sounds that refused to stay still.

"Assuredly the bloodshed you brought was warranted, but how do you suppose you'll set about such plans under our truce with the vampires?"

Reigns scoffed, grinding his teeth at the mere thought of such blasphemy. "You would do well to bite your tongue on the outlandish matters you are speaking when in the presence of our que-"

His words were cut short by the pounding of bodies against stone and metal, over and beyond the leaning roof his legs currently climbed. His impaired nose failed to distinguish what his keen ears simply couldn't process as Reigns drove his legs harder to gain better perspective.

He first saw two warriors bathed in moonlight, fighting to gain leverage over one another. His face grimaced at the ache of his thighs as he climbed down the slanting tiles, nearly slipping off a loose piece. He could hear the two speak in the calm of their struggle for a dominant position, but had little knowledge of French to decipher the banter. Instead, what kindled a fresh, almost excited interest, was the currently implacable, yet oh so familiar voice of one of the fighters. As he reached level ground, Emerson lowered both the corpse and his maddening companion. Before he charged into action his glancing eyes met the probing gaze of the female beast he had just been carrying. He had no real time or inclination to explain his decision to meddle in a fight that did not belong to him, and with a clench of his jaw he pushed forward. There was a great deal of distance between himself and the two combatants, but his nose finally picked up on each individual. Again, he could feel a clawing itch pick at his mind as it rummaged through his distant memories, searching for a face to meet scent and voice.

Their faceless silhouettes could no longer disguise their respective species, and to Emerson it did not matter what the quarrel was about, or who was playing the antagonist. So long as he was near and a were-beast was involved, so too would he be. Trampling the roof as his forceful sprint led him closer, Emerson weaved around the unbalanced terrain with full neglect for any collateral damage. The taxing weight of the armor he wore did few favours for his agility, and his knee crashed into a stray chimney, sending his body barreling to the ground and away from the battle ahead.

With haste he forced his body up and back into a steady sprint only for his eyes to reveal the absence of both fighters. By good fortune, his vigilant ears remained astute as he approached their last seen position, directly over the building's edge. With no hesitation or regard for his own body, a snarling Emerson descended from the rooftops and shattered the immediate ground beneath him upon collision. A deep roar erupted from Reigns’ throat. His seething visage, coupled with a wide circle of movement, allowed very little need to question his intent. The Hammer of Dawn reached to his left side before producing the putrid sack that contained various pieces of his recently defeated foes. He paused in his menacing stride as the item was lifted just above his head. His eyes locking on the iris' of his newest enemy.

"Hear me, wretched gearheart - " he bellowed, "your next move decides if you leave breathing and intact, or dead and in bits with me." The gory bag fell from his hand as his legs coiled to prime for a charge. His arms pumped up and down at his side, almost as if they were being overloaded by a direct feed of his anger and unable to contain it's fury. "It is not a suggestion that you leave while your legs boast the means to carry you."

Emerson grew silent as he was prepped for another murderous confrontation. Little did he or his enemy know his own worn self was already near defeat, exhausted and pushed far beyond it physical limits.

[Phoelidae]

Noora stepped into the moonlight, and the vampire queen wondered how long the rival had been watching. Not that it mattered – it did not hurt to remind an enemy now and again that you are a formidable opponent. Ataraxia paced toward her in the shadow of the buildings around them, holding that pale, intent gaze with her own as she too stepped into the light. Well, as much light as there ever was in their twilight world. The General’s arms were crossed, her stance not aggressive, per se, but certainly … skeptical, as she expressed her concerns.

The Red Death laughed.

It wasn’t a genuine, happy laugh; it was the cold, savage laugh of dead, curled leaves, sweeping through plague-emptied streets under the whip of a pitiless wind. It was the rattling, raucous laugh of carrion crows. It was a drunken, desolate, dead laugh, from the sneering lips of a creature living for death.

But her eyes blazed, almost feverish with purple fire. She walked slowly toward the werebeast, stopping just a little too close, unusually chaotic tension sparking off her skin like electricity as she held the other tall woman’s eyes. “Don’t you trust me, Noora?” she asked, her voice oddly light in contrast with the mad energy that filled her frame and burned from her eyes. “There are no guarantees in war, I’d thought you wiser than that.” Her regarding gaze was intent, but difficult to decipher, taking in the athletic woman before her, noting her weapons and her stance, taking her measure anew as she had not since their first meeting. She felt drunk, intoxicated, and the world looked different – not much, but a little, as though it wasn’t sitting quite right on its axis and it was making everything just different enough to seem off.

"I will never be capable of a trust so valuable, nor a feeling so precious, directed to a demon that masquerades in a mortal host." Noora hissed flatly, dropping her eyes from the gaze of the demon in question. "However, I do what I need to in order to survive. And I cannot control what may come of that."

Ataraxia’s eyes flicked shut, her head shaking infinitesimally, as though she was trying to shed the fog in her thoughts that made her feel reckless and wild. Noora was a valuable ally, and she needed to be dealt with respectfully, or Ataraxia would soon enough find herself in Kestrel’s friendless boat. Was it fear that she sensed in Noora, in the uneasy flicker of her eyes and the stiff tension of her posture? Had the beast noticed the chaos that was breaking out of its tight constraints more and more frequently these days? Had she seen the change in the vampire’s stride, gotten the impression that something alien and evil had made a home in her bones and boiled hungrily against her chalk-white skin? “A demon that masquerades in a mortal host,” she’d said. Fitting. Was she in such a state that a competent, collected, and capable killer like Noora was afraid of her? Aren’t you afraid of yourself? another voice whispered in the back of her mind. She shook it away. She had enough bloody problems without demons whispering in the dark corners of her mind becoming one of them.

She collected herself with effort, and when she spoke again it was more like her customary monotone hiss, though her eyes stayed shut. “Already the petty lords here seek to add my brother’s head to their trophy walls,” she said, waving a hand toward the mangled bodies of the misguided assassins. “I intend to sow the seeds of the idea that whosoever proves himself worthy by killing the Death Cheater will surely take control of the city, and have their ranks flooded with Kestrel’s abandoned flock. I am but an afterthought to these barbarians, no threat to them.” Her violet eyes flicked open, fury and mad hatred spiraling like storm clouds within. Why hadn’t she killed that girl and drained every last drop from her sweet, soft body? Already she was craving blood again, phantom pain clawing at the insides of her stomach, so much more potent now she remembered what it was to be sated. Focus. ”The trick is not to protect Mercia – even she cannot destroy an entire city of vampires, and however formidable you and I may be we only have four arms between us. The trick is to channel all of their anger, all of their hatred, all of their violent hunger … and unleash it on Kestrel. This is a hive, with a hive mind. As go a few, so go all. Their civil war here is of far more salient interest to them now than the eradication of the werebeasts – you are so weak here in numbers and power that you are no threat, even with the Jackal stalking the shadows. To their detriment, perhaps, but certainly to our advantage. When the time comes, none of them will give a rat’s a** about the Midnight Jackal – all they will want is a piece of my unkillable brother’s corpse.” Her face was alive now with feral hunger, bloodlust and vengeance transforming her into something terrible as her lips curled into a sick parody of a smile. “And he is so good about making himself a target for animosity.” she added, shrugging a bony shoulder. ”Does that reassure you, Noora?” Ataraxia asked, her voice dropping as her fingers flexed in their gloves, ”Or would you prefer to take your chances with my brother drawing Paris under his wing?”

She watched the other woman from beneath lowered lashes, watched understanding dawn across her face – this was one of those rare instances where Kestrel’s underhanded mind games were the best course of action. Noora had to get there on her own, or she would reject the risky plan out of hand. “The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king," she whispered, and Ataraxia’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, though she tried to make her nod look solemn instead of manic. She waited, still and silent, while the beast general thought it through. She didn’t think it would happen, but there was a chance that Noora would rebel against the idea, which she had to think would more than likely end in an attack. After all, it was obvious that Ataraxia would continue to pose a threat to her mistress, something the beast was unlikely to tolerate. She was confident she could destroy the were, but it would not be easy – she had seen precious little of Noora’s combat, while she had just treated herself to an analysis of Ataraxia’s own skills. So she waited, poised to strike, until Noora spoke at last.

"How long must we wait for the opportunity to end his reign? This city poses us not much time, and luck has not been kind." All business now, her eyes flicking gold as she met the vampire’s gaze again. Ataraxia studied her slowly, scarlet hair falling into violet eyes as a damp wind whipped through the alley. ”My brother is not a foe to underestimate – I made that mistake once already. But for all his genius, for all his power, he has two weaknesses: hubris, and your queen. Combined, they will destroy him. But he is too slippery and too clever to be manipulated, and he certainly would not listen to me. Although …” What if someone else, someone Kes would never take for a threat, could be used to plant the seed of an idea, to make sure things moved along? Perhaps … perhaps she had just such a pawn waiting in her arsenal … But that was a possibility for another moment, and she returned to herself with another shake of her head. “I may be able to speed it along, with a few well-placed hints, but either way we won’t wait long. Kestrel will not be able to resist making a scene for long, and when he does, we will have the audience we need to orchestrate his destruction. He will be the arrogant, usurping Englishman, come to change their ways and enslave them – I’m sure it won’t hurt that the French and English have always hated each other. And if then he also throws himself at the feet of his Jackal whore … he will be finished.”

She lifted her eyes again, meeting Noora’s gaze with something of her more customary frankness, the madness subsiding a little against the certainty of a plan. Her eyes were chips of amethyst again, instead of pools of fire. But her expression was calculating, waiting for the general to voice the idea herself. ”We must reveal him for what he is, a self-interested, lovestruck tyrant. The sort of man no one wants to swear fealty to. But to do that, we must show exactly how weak he is. And for that … we need the Jackal.”

She had a good poker face, this canid shape-shifter, and an admirable mastery of her reactions and features. If Ataraxia wasn't intimately familiar with the precise emotion she was feeling, she wouldn't have caught it at all. But she knew the struggle Noora was waging behind her blank hazel gaze. She remembered the agony that was absolute, unwavering loyalty.

She still remembered her admiring, slavish devotion to Nihilo. He had been mentor, friend, father, and god to her. He had plucked her from misery and insignificance and given her not only a life, but the purpose she had always hungered for. Without him, she would have died in a gutter, too proud for prostitution and too reserved to inspire compassion. With him, she became an avenging angel for a superior people, destined to destroy the devil herself and create a new world where she could be more than a nobleman's wife or another forgotten street rat. He gave her every opportunity the mortal world would have denied her, and the beatings, the cruelty, the savage training and inhumane lessons in cold-blooded murder he put her through, she could only see as a fair trade.

She remembered, all too acutely, the pain and confusion of deciding to betray that loyalty. She appreciated, better than most perhaps, just what she was asking of Noora, which was precisely why she needed to wait for the general to come to terms with it on her own. When she finally spoke, halting and hesitant, Ataraxia nodded gravely. Truth be told, she didn't like the plan much more than Noora did - she had a huge amount of respect for their eternal enemy, and to debase her in order to entrap her shameless twin was ... distasteful. Not to mention it made her feel slimy to use such an underhanded and manipulative trick that seemed to have come right out of the king's own playbook. But it was also incredibly lucky, for there were precious few chinks in Kestrel's armor otherwise, and perhaps none that they might exploit to destroy him.

Finally, Noora turned sharply on her heels to address the vampire, "Are we of an agreement?"

"We are," she answered, fiddling with her gloves in a rare indication of unease. She couldn't feel it, but she could hear the faint, damp squelch - she'd gotten blood in one of her gloves. She frowned unconsciously, peeling back the leather that fit her more naturally than her own skin, the paper-thin wire-spooling mechanisms sewn into the back clinking delicately as she set them in her pocket. Dark blood stained her left hand, flowing down from a ring around her wrist, slashing across her palm, and painting her ring and pinky finger where the blood had pooled inside the glove. The wildness returned for a moment at the sight of blood, and she lifted her wrist, only to realize that the blood was her own. It smelled metallic and stale, and she thought for a moment that it was such a waste for that soft girl's sweet blood to be wasted on her rusting heart.

What was she thinking? She was in public, before a dangerous audience, no less - whatever this sickness in her was, she needed to reign it in. Ataraxia put her hands behind her back as though nothing had happened, and returned to the business before her. "I am curious - will you tell the Jackal our aim, or keep her in the dark? I will prime Kestrel to take the bait, but he will nail his own coffin quickly enough."

Noora released a breath, shaking her head. "Very well, then," she muttered. "We will reconvene once the plan is in motion. It will be a challenge for us to meet again, given our situations. It may be best to speak through trusted liaisons." The General turned to face her, moving closer and extending a hand, explaining her plan of attack with regard to Mercia. The vampiress nodded – the Jackal was her Queen, after all, she trusted that the beast knew how best to manipulate her.

”It is almost a pity we understand one another so well, Noora Jokelainen. In another life, I think we might have been friends.” She couldn’t quite decide why she had said that – something in the canine’s face that she suspected was a mirror of her own, perhaps. They were not very different, these two cold women, which was why Ataraxia knew with grim certainty as her spidery white hand clasped Noora’s that one day she would kill this woman. A premonition, an echo of fate, or just an arrogant assumption, but she shook her hand in that death-cold grip and then watched the beast disappear into the shadows of the alley.

Noora would always stand before the Jackal. Which meant that one day they would meet, and she would have to die. A shame, really. It seemed Ataraxia Nihilo was doomed to find the shadow of friendship in only the most ill-fated places.

She stood in the alley for a long moment after Noora was gone, watching the black ink blood creep across the broken and jagged cobbles. There was a new dent in the road where she had slammed one of their heads into the stones. She wiped her hand belatedly against the thick black wool of her coat, staring down at it curiously as she began to walk, as though she hadn’t seen it before. She almost never took her gloves off, even in her sleep, and even then it was rare that she paused to examine her own limbs. Her hands were perhaps the only thing about her that were indisputably feminine – she had the long, elegant fingers of a pianist, delicately tapered and slender, fragile looking but far stronger than they appeared. And so white against the darkness that they seemed to belong to a skeleton.

The only break to the white was a heavy black signet ring on her left thumb, crouched below her knuckle like a hideously bloated spider. Nihilo’s ring. How was it that she still had that? She had worn it for so long, and then hid it for even longer, that she had entirely forgotten its existence. Like it was a part of her, even though she no longer felt it. She turned the dark metal under her fingers, examining it and wondering if she should take it off and throw it as far into the darkness as she could, but before she could decide a footstep disturbed her. The vampire spun instantly, dropping into a crouch, reaching into her pocket for the gloves that were her weapons, while her other hand moved to the blade in her boot, prepared for the second fight of the evening …

But it was only Jack. She relaxed, feeling foolish, and straightened back to her full height, leaving her gloves in her pocket. "You need not prepare for a fight," he assured her, hands lifted in peace. The vampire gritted her fangs, still too tightly wound, obviously. Still, it was fortuitous that he had found her, almost as if summoned by her thoughts. "I'm at your service."

A pledge, a declaration, a strange promise from a man she hardly knew, a broken thing that had found her in the woods and felt … what? That she was similarly broken? The thought that anyone came to her seeking counsel on emotional matters, the loss of a sibling, no less, was laughable. She had all but told him that he and the entire world were damned, and yet still he had affixed himself to her, seeking her out to serve her in small ways, making himself her creature. She was puzzled by this misguided loyalty, and could not decide if it made him contemptible and pathetic, or wiser than she could understand.

But however it had come to pass, this pale shade had made himself her servant. What’s more, he seemed afflicted by something of the same, manic madness that was flooding her blood this evening. As if the soldier had sensed and echoed the will and whim of his queen – or perhaps their circumstances were just strangely aligned once more. Whatever the reason, Ataraxia moved forward, arms sweeping out in a wide gesture of greeting, her lips curling back from her fangs in something that couldn’t quite be mistaken for a smile. Her violet eyes danced, her earlier bloodlust returning, bolstered by Jack’s eagerness where before it had been tempered by Noora’s hesitance. ”So you are,” she murmured, reaching out and touching a lock of his pale hair as she circled him, as though she was taking his measure and ascertaining his reality, both at once. ”Tell me Jack – have you ever given my dear brother cause to remember you, or would you be just another face in a crowd to him?”

He shivered, and she could sense it, like a predator senses prey. She bore him no ill will, but neither did she feel compassion for him – he was simply a little thing, this thing that sought to serve her, and she was very old and very strong and growing madder with every desperate feeding. She had always felt that sanity was a matter of perspective, but all the same she knew hers was slipping. And yet somehow, this made her more compelling to him, made her more of a match for her brother, made her more deadly and dangerous than she had ever been when she was sane and contained.

"Without Christa's influence, I believe I am only but another face. Just another name. What past harms done would be little in the wake of his interests to Mercia,” He answered her question, refusing to turn to follow her predatory stride, but his eyes searching all the same. "What would you have me do?"

Her mouth twisted again into that horrid parody of a smile, her violet eyes burning as she came to a halt in front of him, clasping her hands behind her back. ”I need Kestrel to make a move. I need him to place himself before the people of Paris in all of his resplendent glory. I need to build a stage for the devil, and turn it into his pyre. I have made … arrangements, for such a public spectacle to go awry. But time is of the essence. I need him to have this idea now, not when it pleases him.” Out came the gloves again, and she flicked them, almost boredly, as though she weren’t just discussing dangerous strategy. Drops of blood fell to the cobbles like rubies, and she slipped the smooth black leather back on, long fingers stretching into their second skin. It made the faintest sound in the silence. ”I do not care how you get the idea into his head. Whisper it over a cup of wine, tell him I will be stealing his spotlight, I care not. But I want it done as quickly as possible.”

She flicked her eyes back up to his, studying his face. He was a pretty boy, but inescapably a boy. He had the face of an idealist, no matter what might befall him. ”My twin is mercurial. He may bless you, he may kill you, he may not deign to notice your existence. But my presence will tip him in favor of suspicion, and that we cannot afford. I ask you to walk into the lion’s den for me, Jack. Fletcher I can offer you nothing in exchange but the favor you seem to seek. Nonetheless … if you wish to serve me, this is what I ask.”

And his answer was instant, unwavering, fearless. Again, she could not decide if he was incredibly foolish, or courageous and principled. One and the same in a world like theirs, she supposed. When he had come to find her in that forest, confessing the sin of killing his sister, she had left him with the bitter advice that it was all pointless. Still. Even she was a little better disposed toward him, a tiny bit more loyal to her subject, for his determination. He really did just seem to want to help her. Strange, senseless, but true. ”You are a good soldier, Jack. You would make a good friend, to one with need of such things.” She paused, considering him, her purple eyes almost black in the darkness. ”Should it be in my power to help you keep whatever it is you are still fighting for … I shall. It is not much repayment for your loyalty, but I have lost too much blood in my life to weigh it lightly. Go. Find me when it is done - you seem to have an uncanny knack for that.”

[Hamletmaschine]

As the Red Death neared, her laugh had been... chilling. Unnatural in approach, pure in tone. It was a sound Noora had heard many times before, but from the wrong people at the worst of times... From killers, master murderers, communist leaders, emperors, a woman scorned. It was a laugh she hoped to never hear from Ataraxia ever again.
Noora's eyes narrowed slightly as the vampiress moved in closer, their faces only inches apart, and the woman's words rolled off her tongue and filled her ears in a frothy silkiness. Her lips parted through the seduction and allure of those words and muttered under her breath, "I will never be capable of a trust so valuable, nor a feeling so precious, directed to a demon that masquerades in a mortal host." She inhaled slowly and looked down, unable to hold the woman's gaze, "However, I do what I need to in order to survive. And I cannot control what may come of that."
The woman before her looked outward with different eyes, glazed, distant in a haze of something more than what Noora could determine. It was as if she was ill. When they flicked closed the beast relaxed her position, her lip sliding between her teeth as she listened.

As the truth spilled, furiously and dangerous from those pale lips, Noora understood what needed to be done. She eyed the woman with interest, prodding her teeth with her tongue in thought. She could only protect Mercia to a point. They all could. But the vampire was correct, it wouldn't matter in the end. No matter what, they would be graced by a God if they were to survive this city. To bring down the King would be the only way to save them all, "The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king." she quoted in a whisper. It brought a possible, horrible, grotesque thought to her mind. She hated to dwell on it, but the seed spawned an aggressive growth and entranced her. To use Mercia as the bait...
Green eyes changed to gold in a flicker, snapping up to look over Ataraxia as her attention was addressed, "How long must we wait for the opportunity to end his reign? This city poses us not much time, and luck has not been kind."
It was a horrible thought that seized her. A gruesome, grotesque idea. No matter how she turned the excuses, it was downright despicable. But, is it as bad as it seems? Is your heart trying to justify judgment? she heard a voice in the back of her mind utter, making her pupils shrink in horror. Had she become so dependant on the Jackal that to use strategy involving her safety spelled disaster? Had she become so fond of her Queen that the idea of her life outside of the General's control was now fodder for aches and feverish anxiety? What had become of her?

Noora kept her expression as neutral as possible, designed to appear thoughtful, while indeed she did ponder, but more so to hide the dismal realizations that became her. She brushed her hair from her eyes, continuing to chew on the thin flesh of her lips as Ataraxia addressed her question, “I may be able to speed it along, with a few well-placed hints, but either way we won’t wait long. Kestrel will not be able to resist making a scene for long, and when he does, we will have the audience we need to orchestrate his destruction. He will be the arrogant, usurping Englishman, come to change their ways and enslave them – I’m sure it won’t hurt that the French and English have always hated each other. And if then he also throws himself at the feet of his Jackal whore … he will be finished.”
Kestrel was, in all senses of the word, a devil. Truly, to his core, a wretched villain, capable of resurrection, seduction of mass populace to his charms, and corruption. Were the French so hungry for a leader that they would drink their fill of the likes of him? She prayed not. Not her Paris, her people, even if they had been turned to the leeches from the charming mortals they once were... they were still her people... Weren't they? It depressed her how much Paris had easily drowned to the damned. If only I had returned sooner to save you...
She looked deeply into Noora’s eyes and lowly spoke, “We must reveal him for what he is, a self-interested, lovestruck tyrant. The sort of man no one wants to swear fealty to. But to do that, we must show exactly how weak he is. And for that … we need the Jackal.”

Ataraxia did have a point. Kestrel would need to expose himself to the city, create a specter of his new form and reveal his power. All in very short time. To hear the woman speak the sickening thought that had for the last few minutes been plaguing her mind only sent Noora's features into a deeper darkness. She stood silently for a long moment as the idea hung between them, thick and suffocating.
Mercia was a warlord, and beyond the comprehension of the King's sexualized desires for her, let alone anyone else. Noora understood the woman disregarded, and perhaps barely understood, the ideas around her sexuality being used as a weapon. All the Jackal cared for was the blood. She'd be none the wiser to anything in that regard... With a hoarseness to her voice, the General sighed as she spoke, "Though it is not my personal preference, I believe you and I are both understanding of a concept that could run in our favour, without causing much trouble for anyone else other than Kestrel alone." Her eyes met the gems of the other's, and pushed off the wall to pace the darkness slowly, "If we are to invite Mercia into a role in Kestrel's demise, it must be planted in a way to which she gains the upper hand by his suffering. It is the only way she will agree to a plan that is so heavy in politics and lesser in bloodshed. His public humiliation at her feet is, ideally, the best way." She took pause to avoid the puddle of blood beginning to seep away from the bodies and down the incline of the stoned alleyway, "To best create such a devastating reaction would be to... openly sexualize her." Noora inwardly cringed, "To, create a scandal in which only the likes of your brother's mind could conjure. A fantasy... a... pleasurable dream in which he would think himself the King. To her credit, we will need to use Mercia's unabashed ignorance in order to enslave the Leech."
Noora turned sharply on her heels to address the vampire, "Are we of an agreement?"

“We are.”

It didn't feel right, this plan they had conjured. It did not feel just. Yet, in the reality that was the war, who were they, really, as Leader and General of apposing teams, to clarify what was truly 'just'.
Noora's eyes flickered towards the woman, watching her intently as she agreed to the proposition. As Ataraxia pulled the glove from her hand, the General watched with acute interest, in her own silence, from the corner of her eye, turning away slightly, "Very well, then," she muttered, releasing a breath she did not realized she had held, nor for how long, "We will reconvene once the plan is in motion. It will be a challenge for us to meet again, given our situations. It may be best to speak through trusted liaisons." she cast a look back over her shoulder as the woman placed her hands behind her back, watching Noora with her full attention once more.
"I am curious - will you tell the Jackal our aim, or keep her in the dark? I will prime Kestrel to take the bait, but he will nail his own coffin quickly enough."
The General turned to face her, moving closer to place a hand outward in agreement, as most arrangements in business are settled, "I will advise Mercia to our aim, though her full understanding of the situation may need to be won over by the concept of Kestrel's defeat, and less so on how it is accomplished. For the sake of our respected integrity, it would be in best interest if we do not let the Jackal know of your involvement in this scheme... Not only for the shared revelation of equal combatants between you, but for my reputation as well. I think you will agree." Noora smirked, tilting her head slightly before looking away down the alley into the darkness.
”It is almost a pity we understand one another so well, Noora Jokelainen. In another life, I think we might have been friends.”
Noora paused. It wasn’t a freeze, nor stiffening, but rather a knowing pause. She felt a soft sigh ask permission to escape her, but she declined. Rather, she watched the darkness for a moment as her smirk dropped. She looked back to the Queen and nodded with a touch of somberness.

Agreement in place, a plan in preparation for motion, the General nodded her silent leave. Ever present on her mind the knowledge something like this was considered nearly treason, and yet, could be an act that could save the Queen and all their people. She was taking quite the risk, to dance with the kinder of two devils. At least with this one, the evil was necessary.

She walked swiftly, in and out of the shadows of the back alley, careful to avoid the main street. One would believe it safer to use the more lit main cobbled road, but Noora preferred the back alleys. They were closer to her heart, faster, and provided her opportunities to have a challenge presented to her.
With haste, she moved towards the eastern side of the city, where she could feel her Queen’s presence. Out alone again, without a partner. Then again, Noora couldn’t get mad… So was she…
The General had been an assassin for many years, skilled in the arts of stalking and being stalked. Walking the streets of Paris now gave her huntress side an edge, acute and aware of her surroundings, all sounds, and all presences. She knew how many vampires were seated at the table behind the brick of the tavern wall next to her as she passed. She could count each ticking heart without having to feel for them. She could smell how many dying mortals were in the three branches of alleys before her, to come. Seven. Three already dead, the others barely alive. Drained, drugged, sick.

It was no surprise that she sensed another following her. She waited patiently as she walked, slowing her pace only slightly to be able to concentrate more on the pulse of the being. It was not mortal. And it was not beast, for she could sense or smell no other beast in this district for many blocks. None of power, anyway. There were still those below them all, in the underground, the sewers… but for how long?

So, it was a vampire then. She knew it’d have to happen eventually. Now, were they deranged enough to think they could really best the Harbinger in the fight, or was this a real challenge?

Noora breathed in deeply, out silently, hearing the light pitter-patter from above her, the echo into the darkness making it difficult to detect from exactly which direction it came from. A sharp whizzing past her head sent her sharply to the left, placing her back flat against the moist, cold brick wall, in the shadow of the eves.
Three small needles glinted delicately in the moonlight.
Her eyes narrowed.

With haste, she listened and searched above. For a moment, there was no sound, but she wouldn’t leave enough time for them to react. Noora pulled the bow from off her back and shot a bolt into the adjacent alley, letting it ricochet off the barrel of ale and knock over a pitcher to create a loud clang on the ground. She pushed off the wall and bolted silently in the opposite direction, around the other corner. Looking up, she spotted a rain gutter, trailing down a spout along the building. She grasped it tight and began her quiet ascension upward to meet her opponent, while they were under the impression she was at the other end.
Moving silently, as much as the metal drainpipe would allow, she cautiously hoisted herself upward to peek over the top of the eves. The shadows and lights casting over the steeples and chimneys did not trick her eyes. She could now better hear that ticking heart, and nearly the breath of her too. Pushing off the brick with the balls of her feet, and lifting her weight upward and forward, she back-rolled on to the shingles and crouched into the darkest shadow cast along the nearest steeple. Pulling her bow back, she knocked a bolt, listening to the tick tick tick of their time.

The werebeast General peeked around the corner of her steeple, only to deek back in quickly as another needle whizzed past her eyes at lightning speed. She gasped softly to herself and looked up to the darkened sky, listening as the woman took off. Noora pushed off the wood and crouched, pulling back on her bow and letting it go with a fluid motion. The bolt smoothly soared upward, arced to land a few feet before the vampire’s next placement. Her hand reached back and she set herself up again, this time pulling back harder before her release, more direct but still aiming ahead of the woman (For it was plain to see it was now a woman that she contended with).
As the vampire twisted out of the way of her arrows, in and around the chimneys, Noora began to follow, jogging forward to follow her lead, in and out of the shadows, over the steeples and around the stacks. She avoided needles as she heard them split the air between them.

Hopping over the third house, she stopped to survey their surroundings. She peered over the eaves to see the small webbing of platforms and bridges below that created a network of above-ground paths from district to district. Escape routes from homes, and the like. She looked up, not seeing her target any longer, but still hearing that ticking heart. She slipped down onto the nearest platform and jumped across the shadow of the one across from her, her head ducking down as she plastered herself against the brick, just under the rooftop overhang.
Noora, with a little grunt, pulled a couple shingles loose and let them slide down the decline of the roof, and tossing a few below. Below her feet, she stopped hard to snap one of the boards and let it clatter to the ground below, causing the barrels below to topple over in a heap as she let out a call.
She hoped it was enough to convince the woman she had fell. Once the vampire’s attention was above her, looking down, she’d have her chance to catch her predator.
Noora’s mind wrestled between her bow and her blade. Which one would take the blood from her opponent? Which would be cleaner, faster, more silent? The General weighed the options as she held her breath, only perking up when she sound of feet approaching above her alerted her to the woman coming forth, as planned.
Finally deciding on her blade, she waited, feeling the hair on the back of her neck spike as the feet stopped just near the edge. Her eyes looked up, her back pressed hard against the brick in the shadow. When the faintest of looming light faded signaling her predator leaning forward to take a glance, Noora sharply flicked the blade up hoping to hit. Unfortunately she missed, but only by a few inches. It was enough to startle the woman backward and give Noora the advantage nonetheless.
Hoisting herself up into a crouch, the werebeast woman snarled and swiped her leg outward, colliding with the ankles of the vampire woman before her and bringing her down hard against the shingles. Noora jumped on her then, pressing her knee forcefully into the woman’s abdomen, and with both hands, grabbing her wrists to hold them down.

She couldn’t say she wasn’t surprised. Her green eyes widened slightly to the girl under her. Her dark hair, clean, milky skin and flushed lips made Noora suddenly second-guess her judgment. Had this really been her assailant? But the snarl on the woman’s face, thereafter, trued her mind.
Noora couldn’t help but smirk as she growled, “Vous jouez un jeu dangereux, petite souris.” she licked her lips and inhaled deeply the scent of her. It was pretty, feminine, and yet it smelled of fresh blood, “Pensez-vous que vous pouvez me tuer?”
“Maintenant, pourquoi je voudrais de vous tuer si vite? Je n'ai pas eu la chance de te goûter encore.” She purred, and sent her knee colliding with the Harbinger’s tailbone, causing a sharp grimace as pain sliced up Noora’s spine.
She was promptly attacked, barely having a moment to recover, and that cost her. She seethed as she rolled on to her back, burning from her cheek where the needles had met her skin, and her hair scattering over her face. She attempted to stand, but was brought back down by the weight of the woman replacing her stance over her. She twisted and squirmed as she attempted to buck the vampire off her. It was the voice that had her stopping to catch her breath, hair askew and eyes golden as she growled.

The girl’s tongue on her cheek, lapping at the blood she had spilt, sent a chilling shudder over her, the skin on her bones crawling as she closed her eyes firmly and ripped her head away forcefully. Without a doubt in her mind, Noora oozed malevolence towards this unknown assassin. How did she not know of her? Who was this b***h? What God forsaken piss pot did she come from and how many ******** did she give to get this good at her craft? Where was she born? Bred? What were her skill sets? The General fumed--she needed to know it all.

With a look up into those crystalline eyes, that pretty smile, she let out a terrible roar and smashed her forehead into the nose of her opponent, kicking her off her and rolling on to her stomach. In the heat of it, she could not grasp a hold, and she slipped down the sharp metal shingles towards the eaves. At least in her glance back she noticed her attacker had the same problem.

The werebeast pushed her heels out and when they caught the troughs she coiled down and sprung out, leaping down to one of the many boardwalk ledges. If she wanted a fight, beast to ‘beast’, she would bloody well have it.

Noora jumped down to the wet cobblestones below and looked back up, “Sangsue putain.” she spit under her breath, “Don't tell me you're out of breath!” she called, smirking deviously as she paced like a rabid animal caged. She tossed her bow aside and fingered the metal clasp around her arm, her collar, tempting the beast inside her.

The vampire was bold. She managed to slip her way down to the ground with much more finesse than Noora, but the scent of blood on her opponent was more than enough to make the General grin as she paced, “Good.” she mused.
If not for her heightened combat skills, she would have been taken completely off guard as she was met face to face with the woman, a frantic slash aimed at Noora’s chest. The werebeast jumped back, stumbling slightly. The woman was intensely swift. Her petite frame gave her an agility that Noora did not possess as a more athletically built woman. But, it appeared clearly that she was not skilled in close range conflict, her aim inaccurate and technique wild. She was desperate, and Noora smiled.
This close range was not Noora’s specialty, but she was much more skilled in it than the woman before her. With each untamed attempt, Noora was able to recover, though weaponless against her, and with not enough time to find a shield. She waited with bated breath until the moment Del took one swipe too hard, leaving her vulnerable for Noora to get between her arms and hold them back at the wrists, the two pushing against one another for dominance. Noora’s eyes flickered from hazel to red, teeth gleaming as she grinned with a hunger, her hair matted and untamed around her face and in her eyes. The thrill was enough to almost make her laugh.

Neither was weakening, and with little weapons for her to use, Noora was at the disadvantage if she were to get knocked down again. The rolling quake that rippled beneath her feet gave her the edge she needed to push the woman back far enough to regain composure. What she had not expected was the bellowing voluminous roar that followed it. Noting her target’s gaze was over the beast’s shoulder, Noora turned her head around to see the shadow of a large figure, and the voice that carried from it caused her paralyzing surprise, "Hear me, wretched gearheart-"
“Veli...” she whispered as her heart swelled. Welcome home.



“Vous jouez un jeu dangereux, petite souris.” = "You play a dangerous game, little mouse."
“Pensez-vous que vous pouvez me tuer?” = "Do you think you can kill me?"
“Maintenant, pourquoi je voudrais de vous tuer si vite? Je n'ai pas eu la chance de te goûter encore.” = "Now why would I want to kill you so quickly? I have not had the chance to taste you again."
“Sangsue putain.” = "******** leech."
“Veli...” = (Finnish) "Brother..."

[Bitter Aphrodisiac]

XXXXXXXScaling the rooftops in search of her prey, Del could not remember the last time she had felt so alive. Indeed, for the past year she had merely been sleepwalking her way through her strategies, paying them heed but never fully submerging herself into them. But now, after so long staying in the background, she threw herself back into the fray, reveling in the high it gave her. And yet, what was a fray without an opponent? Her eyes scanned the alleys she passed swiftly, feet making the lightest of taps on ledges and rooftops. Noora was too smart to venture through the main streets of the city, she knew, and Del had detected the scent of a powerful - and lone - werebeast in this area.
XXXXXXXThere. She thought suddenly as she neared the alley way in front of her, three needles already poised in her knuckles for the jump. She leapt, glancing down in time to catch a glimpse of Noora's red hair as she neared a turn. Within a moment the needles were out of her hand and sailing toward their target, but the Black Widow had no time to see if they hit their mark before she landed on the next rooftop with a roll. She braced herself on her hands and feet, crouching low in the gravel of the rooftop as she ceased her breathing. The alleyway had gone deathly quiet, but she took no chances. Despite her prowess with her weapon she knew she couldn't have made her shot, and waited silently, not unlike a spider in her crouch, for some indication of movement. She had the upper hand while she was still on the high ground, and she did not intend to give away her position so easily.
XXXXXXXThe soft creak of a well-oiled bowstring, the whizz of an arrow, the clang of barrels falling to the ground, and Del launched herself immediately over the alley in front of her, needles in her right hand poised for the strike. Yet when she looked, no one was there, and her eyes went wide as she glanced to the left. With a grunt she twisted in time to loose a poorly aimed shot at the braid that whipped around the corner, and landed hard on her knees on the gravel of the rooftop with a soft curse. So the Harbinger was tricky, but what did She expect? She had been craving a well matched fight in a city of underlings, and Kestrel had been kind enough to give her just that with this mission. She was not about to let it go to waste.
XXXXXXXBrushing off her pants as she stood, the Black Widow glanced around for the most defensible position. The rooftop was nowhere near flat, with various steeples and peaks and chimneys contorting its silhouette, providing the perfect plane for their impromptu battle. Without a second thought she slipped passed a window arch and behind a chimney. A soft scratch of metal had alerted her to the Harbinger’s presence not even a moment before, but Bedelia was not willing to give up her element of surprise, even if her high ground was gone to her. She took one slow, deep breath, gripping her double-edged needles tighter in front of her face, carefully honed points digging into the leather grip in her palm as she stared at the poisonous tips. She dared not attempt to loose one now and risk losing her prized weapons. No, the needles in her left were reserved for close-ranged combat, where she knew she could inflict damage with just a scratch, even if it wouldn’t be lethal.
XXXXXXXThat is not your mission. She begrudgingly reminded herself. No, her only goal was a lock off the pretty General’s head. Kestrel had informed her that she was not to mortally wound the werebitch’s general or else risk breaking the so-called “truce” they had forged out of mutual desperation. She nearly spat at that. Evidently, his ludicrous sister’s trusting habits were rubbing off on him. That was something she would clearly need to change.
XXXXXXXThe soft clink of disturbed shingles alerted her to the Harbinger’s ascension. She immediately ceased her breathing, although she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Damn this metal contraption. She lamented angrily at the soft ticking in her chest, her mind flying back once more to the night her first love stole her real heart. Often she would fantasize about ripping it out to cease its awful gears, although she knew it would certainly mean her demise. While it was the source of her eternal life, it also meant she would never truly have the element of surprise, betraying her position at every turn of every mission.
XXXXXXXWell, that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun. She smirked at herself, drawing three plain throwing needles into her right hand knuckles. It took her only a moment to center herself before she twisted swiftly around the corner, sending her needles flying towards where the werewolf scent was the strongest. The moment they left her hand she twisted right back and was off, zig-zagging amongst the steeples and chimneys with a throaty laugh, loosing plain needles whenever she caught a glimpse of the General. No, she wouldn’t let this fight end quickly. Although she wasn’t normally one for a fight, she was absolutely adoring the adrenaline this one gave her. She reveled in each dodge, adored each duck and jump, and positively relished the soft whizz of her needles soaring through the air once more. It was an amazing feeling to have after being out of the game for so long, so much so that she didn’t realize how much she had missed this aspect of New Londontown until the opportunity for it was thrust upon her. While her appetite for fighting had never been large, when it reared its head, it expected a feast before her, and she had exactly that.
XXXXXXXNoora's arrows were easy enough to dodge, once she took note of their trajectory, and she playfully danced away from each shot, although a careless slip on a shingle nearly cost her a hand. She was indeed slightly rusty after being out of the front lines and submerged in aristocratic laziness for a year. That was something she would have to train out of her system before their little hodge-podge group moved on, evidently.
XXXXXXXHowever at the sound of a clatter and a yell she came to a halt, ducking behind a chimney to wait. Did the Harbinger really just fall off the ledge? The thought made her chuckle, but left her no less wary. If her reputation said anything about her, it was that she could always be counted on to trick her opponent. After a few moments of hearing nothing, the Black Widow carefully ventured towards the source of the noise, finding a few shingles missing towards the edge. She eyed them warily as she inched closer, needles in both hands guarding her chest as she carefully leaned over to survey the ground below and leapt back instantly with a gasp, letting out a soft curse at the blade that had suddenly lunged towards her face. She hadn’t noticed the rickety platform below the roof, or even stopped to think that her target might be hiding just beyond her line sight. Nearly a fatal mistake, putain. She chastised herself, but before she even had time to counter, the Harbinger was up in front of her with a snarl, sweeping her legs out from under her with a swift kick and pinning her to the ground with a knee to her stomach and hands on her wrists. She hissed then, careening forward violently, fangs bared and glistening. In this position she could do little more than squirm her upper body, although she found she still had full use of her legs. Her grip on the needles between her knuckles tightened.
XXXXXXXHer prize, the very thing she needed to prove her worthiness of the title General, dangled right before her eyes, loosened and dripping away from the braid that held it back. Long strands of honey red hair tickled her cheeks as her opponent smirked above her, their noses mere inches apart. If she could just get one wrist free, the title would be hers. But no, the Harbinger’s grip was too tight on her thin wrists, so Bedelia chose to relax instead, waiting for her moment to strike.
XXXXXXX«Vous jouez un jeu dangereux, petite souris.» Bedelia was surprised to hear her own native tongue drip ever so delectably off the General’s lips, and she bit her lip to hide her grin. You are playing a dangerous game, little mouse. «Pensez-vous que vous pouvez me tuer?» You think that you can kill me?
XXXXXXXSo she thinks I’m here to kill her? Good. She relished. Her plan had worked, Noora had no clue why she was here or what her true goal was. «Maintenant, pourquoi je voudrais de vous tuer si vite? Je n'ai pas eu la chance de te goûter encore.» Now, why would I want to kill you so quickly? I haven't had the chance to taste you yet. She practically purred her statement, eyes flashing with a carnal desire to feed as she had long ago. It had been too long, she decided, since she had known and fed from a werebeast. It was too bad she hadn’t the time for it now.
XXXXXXXIn one swift movement Bedelia swung her leg up sharply, colliding her knee with the Harbinger’s tailbone, causing her spine to jolt forward and force the air from her lungs. Wasting no time, she ripped her wrist free, slashing violently at her opponents face and knocking her to the side. Leaping off the ground, she advanced on her target. Her needles had managed to scratch three perfect red lines across the Noora’s cheek, but whatever hair had gotten caught up in the swipe was too fine to be seen on the shingles, and she silently cursed. She had the perfect chance to complete her mission, and had botched it.
XXXXXXXThe Harbinger rolled onto her back, breath regained, but wasn’t quick enough in rising. Del pounced, shins landing hard on Noora’s thighs, feet tucked under the Harbinger’s knees to keep her from pulling the same move she just had. With one hand Bedelia pinned both of the Harbinger’s wrists above her head. It wouldn’t hold her for long, but she counted on that. She wanted to have a little fun first. Smirking at her captive, Del leaned down and gently licked the blood that softly dripped from Noora’s wounds, delicate fingers holding her chin in place so she couldn't turn away. «Ce que j'aurais donné de vous avoir dans mon lit pendant mon saccage. Vous auriez été un tel prix.» What I wouldn't have given to have you in my bed during my rampage. You would have been such a prize. She exhaled with a throaty growl. It had been over a decade since she had tasted werebeast blood, and she rolled it on her tongue, savoring the sweet, incomparable taste and aroma. It really did taste like heaven.
XXXXXXXThe headbutt that came next, however, was not what she was expecting. Arms wrenching free, hips twisting violently, yes; but direct collision between Noora’s forehead and her nose was never something she considered. Searing pain shot through her cheeks and into her eyes as she reared and was suddenly thrust off, rolling away faster than she could reach out and grab a hand hold anywhere amongst the slippery shingles. She managed to grab a hold of a gutter as she rolled off the ledge, swinging down with a smack of her knees against the stucco, but held on tightly, dangling from one arm. A small trickle of blood snaked its way down her lip. Had she had more to drink before starting this battle, it surely would have been flowing, but she hadn’t enough in her system to warrant such a bodily response. As it was her nose was taking longer than normal to heal.
XXXXXXX“Don't tell me you're out of breath!” Del heard Noora call, and she grinned back at that all-too self-satisfied smirk.
XXXXXXX“On the contrary, mon petit loup.” She responded, releasing her grip to land on the cobblestones in a crouch and gaze at her opponent beneath dark lashes. “I do not require it to begin with.” As she straightened, she noticed Noora fingering the metal clasp at her arm, but managed to keep her expression from changing. Her time was running short, evidently. While a scrap of werewolf fur would certainly fulfill Kestrel’s request, it wasn’t what was asked of her, and it wasn’t what she wanted. If she were ever going to retrieve a lock of that pretty red hair, it had to be now.
XXXXXXXOne second she was smirking at the Harbinger, the next she was at her throat, her dirk released from its holster at her thigh and gripped tightly in her palm, slashing at Noora’s chest wildly. If she could remain unpredictable and keep the General on her toes, she should be able to snatch a lock without drawing too much attention to it. She lunged and leaped as the Harbinger evaded every move, growing desperate to end this battle before her target shifted into her beast and her chance was lost. That thought, however, distracted her long enough to lose her frenzied form, and Jockelainen grabbed her wrists and held them up as the two fought hard for control. Her dirk was still in her hand, but the two Generals were too evenly matched for one to gain ground over the other. That is, until a dreadful roar erupted to their left.
XXXXXXX"HEAR ME, WRETCHED GEARHEART!" A voice bellowed, and as Noora turned to identify the owner of the voice Bedelia wrenched her dirk hand free, slicing swiftly through a long lock of orange-red hair before pocketing it and jumping back. "Your next move decides if you leave breathing and intact, or dead and in bits with me. It is not a suggestion that you leave while your legs boast the means to carry you." The voice growled once more, and Del turned to face the looming monstrosity at the end of the alleyway. Her original opponent muttered a word of familiarity, and the Black Widow raised an eyebrow, looking back and forth between the werebeast ready to charge; the Harbinger, clearly distracted by the new addition to their battle; and the gory bag of vampire flesh the werebeast had dropped to the ground. She looked back at Jockelainen. She had a clear shot now, all she had to do is take it and the General would be out of her hair for good, and she could feed. Feed on the delicious werebeast blood she had been craving for centuries, since the last time she had had it. It was so close, all she had to do was --
XXXXXXXNo. She scolded herself, fighting hard for self-control. That is not your mission. You have accomplished it. It's time to leave. She gave a laugh and crossed her arms, looking across to the massive werebeast. “My work here is done either way. Bon soir, mes amis.” She gave Noora a wink before disappearing quickly around the corner and weaving her way back to the main streets. She wrapped the lock of hair around one of her needles, tying it off with a ribbon and placing it back inside her sleeve as she walked. The night was still young, if she could even call it that, as it was always night no matter what the time was. Nevertheless, she was more awake than ever before and still riding the high of a successful fight, and all she needed now was one thing. To feed.
XXXXXXXWith a grin the Black Widow launched herself into the air and onto one of the lower rooftops near her, sprinting towards the bright yellow lights of Paris's red light district, Pigalle. Carlisle owned a number of brothels there, as did many of the other self-proclaimed vampire kings, making it a particularly dangerous place, as vampires of all affiliations had a habit of fighting for territory and honor often in the streets. But it was still the best place to go for a meal if Bedelia wanted to hunt, especially in the way that she was accustomed to.
XXXXXXXShe landed square in the center of the sidewalk, rising just in time for a beautiful little whore to run straight into her, causing a snarl to escape Bedelia's throat. The girl backpedalled immediately, spewing apologies, a look of pure terror in her eyes. That's when Bedelia recognized her. Her name was…what, Amelie? She was one of Carlisle's best whores. Raising an eyebrow, Del stepped closer to her. “Amelie, how good to see you again. How do you fair?” Evidently the girl had already recognized her, but still looked too terrified to speak. Bedelia took a step closer. “Where is your voice, girl? Speak.”
XXXXXXX"Desolé, desolé, Madame! He took everything, he wasn't human… I just -- I couldn't -- It was like I couldn't resist --" The girl broke out into hysterics, practically throwing herself at her feet, before Bedelia wrenched her from the ground to look her in the eye.
XXXXXXX“Use your words, Amelie. Who was it, what did he take?” She was growing tired of the girl, and needed answers. If a vampire from another King had stolen from their brothel, Bedelia would just have to pay them a visit tonight and get things sorted. One less head to lop off later.
XXXXXXX"All of -- all of my jewels, and -- and -- and, he t-took me… I was g-going to tell you s-straight aw-way… M-madame, je pense qu'il… I think he was a wereb-beast!" Amelie sobbed, crumpling to the ground as Bedelia released her.
XXXXXXXA smirk slowly grew across her lips, and she waved the girl off. “You have done well to tell me, child. Now go home.” She left Amelie lying there on the sidewalk, too engulfed in her own excitement to pay her much heed. First she was able to attack a General, and now she was back at it, hunting a werebeast. The night couldn't get any better. After a moment's thought she set off towards the brothel, running through all of the locations the werebeast would think to hide after such a conquest. Getting out of Pigalle wouldn't be easy at this hour, especially for a werebeast in the midst of so many vampires. He would need to hunker down where his face wouldn't be remembered, check his spoils… She smiled, knowing exactly where he would be.
XXXXXXXBedelia noticed him as soon as she entered the poorly lit bar, sitting in a corner and attempting to look inconspicuous. His back was to her, and he had a friend with him. Interesting. She mused. She hadn’t known werebeasts to work with humans very often, and Amelie had made no mention of his friend. Regardless, she was ready for a meal. Walking up to the bar, she placed a few francs on the heavily lacquered wood and flashed the bartender her friendliest smile, fangs showing clearly. “A pitcher of your darkest ale, s’il te plaît.” He hurried away without a word to fetch her request while she loosened her corset around her bosom and let down her hair, smudging her makeup slightly to blend in with the rest of the whores in the bar. This man would be on guard, being in a city infested with vampires. She had to do her best to look as unthreatening as possible.
XXXXXXXThe bartender returned, and she gave him an extra franc for his trouble. It wasn't quite necessary, for Carlisle owned the bar as well, but she wasn't one to treat those who did her bidding poorly. No, it did no good to foster ill will amongst those who served you, she had decided long ago. She sashayed seductively over to the two men on which she had her eye. If her werebeast noticed her approach, he did not acknowledge it. “Bonjour, mes amis. I see you’ve had an eventful night.” She gave them a friendly, innocent smile and a warm giggle to match, playing her part to the nines as she shifted a few jewels to set the pitcher down. “Enjoying Pigalle, I hope?”
XXXXXXXHis friend gave her a charming smile, and she gave him a mischievous wink back, tongue darting out to lick her lips lightly. A shame he isn’t my target, he seems like he would be much easier to seduce. She lamented silently inside her head. But where’s the fun if you don’t work for it?
XXXXXXX"Bonjour." The werebeast greeted her with a raised eyebrow and a lick of the lips, words heavily accented with a Russian flare as he responded affirmatively to her question. "You speak English?" She turned her attention back to him, fingers resting lightly on the shoulder seam of his coat, tracing it. By the look he had given her when he first took notice of her, he had called her already as a vampire. Unsurprising, really, but not a problem. Now the true game begins.
XXXXXXX“Oui, je parle un petit peu. You two look a little out of place here, and decided I needed a, comment tu dis? Ah, practice.” She played up her accent, feigning only a working knowledge of the tongue she had been speaking for the past four hundred years as she feigned attempting to place his. With an innocent curiosity she plopped herself down in his lap, arms loosely wrapped around his neck and noses only a few inches apart. “And where do you hail, beaux homme? Your accent is not one I have encountered.” She bit her lip slightly as she smiled, doe eyes wide and interested as she looked up at him. From where she sat she could see the scar down his eye more clearly, and gave it a worried glance before calming her face once more. Russian? And the scar... Had she had a heart, it would have given a jump. Something wasn’t right here. Why did this man suddenly seem familiar?
XXXXXXX"Aye, I am a Russian man. So is my comrade here." His words drew her back to him, and she glanced at his friend across the table with an excited smile.
XXXXXXXA chuckle came from the man in question. "Friend? You wear such a tough exterior, comrade, I thank the stars you finally see me as an ally." He received a chuckle from Bedelia at that one, but quickly dismissed himself from the conversation.
XXXXXXX"Ah, from la Russie? I’ve heard it is beautiful this time of year. I’ve always wanted to travel there." She smiled wistfully, her face contorting to look as if lost in imagination. In reality she was sizing the two up. What was a human doing hanging out with a werebeast? And what was this talk of allies? Were they working together? Were they lovers? Unlikely, but if so, this could be interesting. Maybe I will need this. She thought to the vial hidden in her sleeve.
XXXXXXX"Russia is beautiful all times of year, you just have to be in the right places. Right, comrade?" Her target again referred to his friend, and Del had more than a sneaking suspicion their relationship wasn't platonic. The vial then, just in case. She decided. "We’re just passing through. Tradesmen. Though I suppose that’s what they all say, non?" He added. "Do you like it here, in Paris? We don't come this way often…"
XXXXXXXAt that, she couldn't help but laugh. How unoriginal, he would have to do better than that. Was he even trying so sound convincing? “Oh, oui, plenty of tradesmen passing through Pigalle. What is it that you trade, fine jewels and gems?” She raised an eyebrow at the other man, the hoarder of their treasures, evidently, and lifted a particularly lavish ruby ring from the table. As she did, she allowed the vial to slip down her sleeve and into her palm, holding it there as she placed the ring on her opposite hand and admired it. “Although it is very unlike tradesmen to brandish their conquest so openly. Très dangereux dans Pigalle, aussi.” She looked back at the werebeast, her bejeweled hand coming up to trace the scar down his cheek lightly. “Although something tells me you know no lack of danger.” The scar bothered her. From where did she know it?
XXXXXXXIn response to the Paris comment, she shrugged, watching his comrade gather up their prize. Paris est paris. It is my home, how could I not love it? Though I must admit, it can be dangerous.” She flashed a smile at the human. “But what is life without a little danger, non?” His hand reached out and traced the faint veins underneath the milky skin of her hand, the one with the vial, and she forced herself not to tense, smiling at him with feigned interest as her mind raced. She was called, and if she wasn’t already, she was about to be. She had underestimated this one, and that could only be placed on her. A werebeast would not venture into the heart of Paris without knowing he could escape, one way or another. She hadn’t backed him into enough of a corner before attempting her trick. Merde. She thought.
XXXXXXX« Vraiment? Et pourquoi est-ce? Les vampires ne nous font pas peur. » His eyes narrowed to get a better look at her with their faces so close. Truly? And why is that? The vampires do not scare us. "A swift hackjob to the neck cleans them up nice-like. A little dangerous, perhaps…" Their faces were inches apart, and he tilted his chin closer to her teasingly.
XXXXXXX“Decapitation? Desolé, camarade, but I believe that no longer works. Didn’t an English fellow return after his sister sliced off his head? If I am not mistaken, he is here in Paris now, non? Dangerous, indeed.” She challenged back. She tilted her head towards him as well, mouths a few centimeters apart. Her other hand came up, nails resting over his heart, pressing ever so slightly. “Non, it’s the heart you want, if you want to do it right.” His threat did not scare her. She knew that, if she needed, she would be up and out of his arms before she was in any real danger.
XXXXXXX"No matter where I go, I seem to attract such attention." He mused, smoothing his hand over hers as he glanced pointedly at his comrade. "No matter where we go." The correction startled her. We? She forced herself to hold his gaze, but her mind went to his partner. We. Was he...? Only then did she sense it, the faintest werebeast aura hovering around him, the lightest scent of werebeast that she had assumed was left over from her target. So there are two of them, that's their connection. Putain. She scolded herself. She was rustier than she thought, and that was unacceptable.
XXXXXXXThe grip on her hand brought her back, turning her palm over to rest face-up in his, but she kept her fist closed despite the werebeast’s clear intention. It was a tiny vial, barely the size of her thumb, and thin, but inside it was a drug she had created that could make even the giant werebeast she had encountered earlier pliable. So he had seen her take it from her sleeve? She was truly out of practice. That was the least of her problems, however, she realize as the werebeast continued.
XXXXXXXHis face was mild, but his words were anything but, holding within them a silent threat. I know who you are. They said. "Perhaps you could provide a weary, dangerous traveller some viable information, yes? There were whispers of a woman that roamed here, a vampire, with some considerable power. Long hair, petite body, she could fool any man. They used to call her… ah, what it is in Russian is ‘Chernaya vdova’, which loosely translates to… Black Spider. You wouldn't know of her, would you?"
XXXXXXXHe had called her, truly called her. But how? It had been centuries since she had last taken up her mantle and hunted as she attempted to now, since she had been outed by the Daughter of Morrigan. All mention of her now revolved around ghost stories told by the few werebeasts who were around at the time, with most of the talk concentrating itself in London, where she had been for so long. Unless... They’re Mercia’s. That would explain why they were so deep in the city, and why they were travelling together rather than alone. Suddenly it all made sense to her, and an anger rose inside of her. The werebitch was taking her first kill from her in centuries, too?
XXXXXXXTaking her hand from his, she let the vial slip back down to its pocket inside her sleeve before gently cupping his cheek in her palm with a smile, carefully keeping her anger tucked away for a later date. “La Veuve Noire? She has not been seen around here for centuries, mon ami. She is a ghost story, nothing more. Most in Paris are too young to ever have known her.” Her words weren’t false, no matter the air in which she said them. She had been here for a few months, but it had been centuries before that, and most vampires in Paris were too young to have had the pleasure of her company unless they resided in Carlisle’s court. Why give that away, though? “Now, why would ghost stories interest you?” She smirked. She knew she wasn’t fooling him, but she wasn’t in imminent danger, not yet. And if he was Mercia’s, she wasn’t leaving until she knew who he was. She studied his face and his scar, running it through her head. Russian, facial scar, at least two centuries old, probably three… She took a deep breath. Wolf, like the Harbinger. What werebeast did she know of that fit that description?
XXXXXXXHe turned to kiss the palm of her hand, and she smiled mischievously, giving a light giggle as his lips moved against her skin with his words. Even if he had called her, his partner might not have, and so the façade remained. "Such stories should interest a traveler, as foolhardy or not as I. One must always be cautious of the dangers and folklore of a city. There is no telling what is true and false in this world, anymore." His tongue grazed his lips as he bit down on them, and she chewed on her lower lip lightly. Judging from his reaction to her flirting and her own body, it was a dangerous form of foreplay they were partaking in, and they both knew it. All she desired was to bed and bleed the wolf before her, she ached for it in her bones, especially after the banter the two had had. But Kestrel’s words echoed back into her head, of the ill-chosen truce he had forged with the werebitch. If this wolf was Mercia’s, then she couldn’t risk her kill, even though with their proximity ripping out his jugular would be child’s play. "Regardless, if you say there is nothing to fear, I suppose I should not bother with the thought." He leaned forward then, their chests pressed to each other, and breathed in her scent. She watched his eyes as he spoke, mind combing through everything she had learned about any werebeast fitting his description. "You smell different than the others. More earthy, more… how shall I say… ‘beastly’?" As the word “beastly” left his lips, she found her answer. "I never caught your name."
XXXXXXXMovement to her left caught her attention, and her hand shot out, gripping the other werebeast’s wrist with crushing intensity as he attempted to slip past them. Her eyes never left the wolf’s as she murmured feather-light against his lips, “I believe you already know my name, Iscariot.” His face contorted into a snarl, and she pulled back with a smirk, needles already gripped between her knuckles against his throat as she held both of their attentions.
XXXXXXX"Easy, woman," The one whose wrist she gripped hissed, glancing around for an exit. "Look at where you are, it is not hard for a scene to be made here. And know that I care little for either you or my comrade."
XXXXXXXShe had no intention of hurting them, and allowed her facade to drop, voice flat and face neutral, as she addressed the other werebeast. It was interesting that he thought of himself first and foremost, whereas any other of Mercia’s ilk would have been more violent towards the needles currently pressed against Lagunov’s throat. She studied him. Evidently he was young, and new, if he did not at least value Vilen for his skill, and for the fact that he so readily admitted to the enemy that he would not defend his partner if it meant preserving his own hide. She tucked this knowledge away for future use. “I suggest you leave Pigalle at once if you wish to continue living. After all, werebeasts around here have been dropping like flies.” She spoke perfectly unaccented, all warmth gone from her demeanor, then rose, releasing both of them.
XXXXXXXThe Iscariot murmured something about wanting just that as she rose, and she smiled as she began to saunter away, but tossed back over her shoulder, "Oh, and do tell Noora I say hello. I believe she’s dying to know who I am."
XXXXXXXShe heard the chair screech back and fall over just as she was pulled back and pressed to him, Vilen Lagunov, one of the most well-known and deadly werebeast assassins, and yet she wasn't the least bit afraid. She knew he was with Mercia, and he would assume, albeit correctly, that she was with Kestrel. If either did any damage, it would mean the end of the truce, and neither could have that. "That’s quite a lot of English for a local. Damn fine good English. Better to play your role more in depth next time. Kestrel knows a lot of actors, being one himself. You could learn a thing or two." And there it was, anger of the truce -- or was it Kestrel himself? -- taking hold, although she smirked at his description of her English. "Too bad you’re a Leech. We could have had something there."
XXXXXXXHe was a good deal taller than she was, but she still managed to whisper "Hasn't stopped your kind before." seductively in his ear, her tongue flicking lightly across his lobe before she backed away. "Au revoir, messieurs. I am sure I will see more of you." She winked at them before stepping out into the muggy night air with a breath of annoyance and beginning to make her way back to the 16ieme Arrondissement.



I do believe that Del should officially receive the "Thirsty AF" and "Shameless Flirt" titles after this one lol…
I'll edit this and put in Blitz's parting words once you have them up in the doc, Dev!

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