❝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]

Kestrel moved through the crowd, heedless of the many bodies that stepped hurriedly out of his path. His eyes and his attention were fixed on the man who’d caught his eye - tall and lead, and strangely washed-out. Even in the warm light of the lanterns and candles, some curious trick of his coloring made him look flat and monochrome, without any of the warm hues that normal bodies, even vampire ones, possessed. His pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes together made him look almost ghostly, and if he’d had to guess, Kestrel would have bet that he had been ill in his first life. That he was vampire was clear - Kestrel couldn’t quite have said why, since he couldn’t see fangs, but there was an absolute certainty, like calling to like, that he felt in the pit of his stomach and had no reason to mistrust.

He was so intrigued by the man’s unwavering eye contact that he didn’t even realize that he was crossing more of the distance between them, a power game he would never normally allow. But curiosity had ever been a sin of his, and this man’s fearless regard had his piqued. He could count on one hand the number of people who knew he was, and dared to regard him so blatantly. When he came to a stop in from of the gray man, he looked straight into his eyes and tipped his head ever so slightly to the side, arms clasped behind his back nonchalantly. ”Do I know you?”

“No, I do not think you do.” The man shook his head, and paused, and after a moment explained that he came from time spent in the New World. Kestrel’s nostrils flared with distaste - he had no interest and no respect for what the Yankees had done across the sea, nor the native people they had all but obliterated. It was all an uncouth, unnecessary business, and in his mind no vampire should have been wasting their time in the Americas when the real war was here, in Europe. But that was a small concern, because as his nostrils flared, he caught a whiff of the man’s scent, strangely bland, except for the tang of metal. It was the scent of Ataraxia, and the alloy of her ever-present wires, that he recognized. His green eyes narrowed - was he a spy then, or an envoy of his sister? ”You have the metallic scent of my sister about you," he mused, his eyes glittering with subtle challenge as he shifted forward onto the balls of his feet.

"Oh, her? I was just saying hello. Broody thing, isn't she?" Kestrel resisted the urge to grin wickedly at the understatement, waiting for more instead. This man had still yet to introduce himself, or say anything meaningful about who he was or what he was doing here. He must have been reading the situation as carefully as Kestrel was, because a moment later he introduced himself - Hal, the bounty hunter.

Well, that explained the brazen disregard for his own safety - Kestrel had never met a bounty hunter who didn’t think himself divinely invincible. He allowed his lips to curl into a haughty, serpentine smile, one long fang appearing because one corner of his mouth always pulled up higher than the other. "Well, Hal, you are right. Though I think the prey I have on my list might be a cut above uncivilized Yankee beasts.” He made no secret of his skepticism - if he hadn’t heard of this Hal, he must not have a very impressive reputation. Kes made it a point to know anyone who might try to kill him, or would be willing to kill for him. Actually, he didn’t even know if he still had any bounties on his head, or if those had all died when he had. Shame Raxi hadn’t collected on a few of them, she could have bought herself a new wardrobe that less resembled a monk. ”Have you ever hunted vampire before?"

Hal’s sip in response was a ploy Kestrel himself used when he cared to hide his contempt for a question. His verbal answer suggested the same - though in one regard, he was damned whatever his answer. There was a lazy confidence behind Hal's demeanor that said he was genuine, which made Kes more cautious, and also more intrigued. Not everyone could kill a vampire, but then a vampire who killed their own kind had better have a very good reason to do it. The Leech King’s stance shifted slightly, his shoulders squaring, mistrustful of this grayscale man with his many smirks. He had the bearing like the Paradin twins) of someone who had been somebody in his last life, taught to hold his head high, his spine straight, his eyes hooded. And sure enough, it soon became clear that he was not working alone, as he summoned a small, dark-haired man in server’s garments forward. Kestrel tilted his head, aware of the sudden eagerness that Hal let slip, his careful demeanor cracking just a little as he looked to his associate. Through the cracks, Kestrel could glimpse the drive and anticipation of a very dangerous man.

He took no notice of the servant, who kept his head lowered, eyes fixed only on serving tray. Hal gestured elegantly toward it, and as Kestrel watched, the silver lid was lifted.

Bedelia’s dead eyes stared up into his own, her face framed by a pool of red blood and hair. Kestrel stilled, the surprise registering only in the flick of his eyes and the tensing of his fists. He had ordered her death, for her betrayal and abandonment centuries ago, but even so … once, he had considered her a friends, a companion, almost a sister. Once, they had laughed and killed together, and she had helped him rise to the power he had now. Weariness washed through him for a single mechanical heartbeat - Christa, Pesha, now Bedelia - his circle of confidantes dwindled ever farther.

The momentary weakness showed only in his still silence, the delay before his reaction. "The Black Widow," he said slowly, his voice cool and careful with newfound respect, and wariness for this vampire before him. "That is impressive indeed. And what do you want in exchange for such a lavish gift?"

"I doubt you would believe me if I said I wanted nothing at all. I am only fulfilling the needs of many by providing myself and my men to the service of the King... or Queen..." he nodded his head toward Ataraxia, far across the room, "Whomever deems most capable at keeping me satisfied."

Kestrel did not like Hal, not one little bit. He was entirely too much like himself. He studied the dead face of the woman he'd once considered a friend, then the face of the man who made no pretense of being one. The threat was so thinly veiled it was crude, and Kestrel's polite smile turned into a sneer. "Well, I don't think I need to worry. Men like you and I find satisfaction in the same things, I think." As if a mercenary like Hal could ever find satisfaction with his cold, tactless sister -

Wait a moment. He had given Ataraxia so little thought this evening, but something had been gnawing at the back corner of his mind. Why was she here? What did she stand to gain by attending, save for humiliation? And who had persuaded the Jackal to come? This ball, this night, something about it had gone too smoothly. It was as though they’d both conceded to him, allowing him to take the limelight as host and hero … letting him call all the attention to himself. Kestrel’s eyes suddenly flicked up and around, and his tactician’s brain realized, even before clear thought caught up, that this was trap. Tension sang through the air between vampire beast and vampire, the crowd all but frothing at the mouth for something to happen. He didn’t yet know how or what was going to happen, but he was being set up.

Unless he could turn the tables on his would-be trapper. Everyone was here, beast and vampire alike - an opportunity for spectacle that was not likely to come again any time soon. This was his chance, one final service Bedelia could provide for him.

Kes dipped his long fingers into the blood, grasping Bedelia's head by her long, tangled hair. His lips curled into a sick, hungry smile, and then he lifted her head high, letting the cold blood splatter all around. "ATARAXIA," he bellowed, turning to present the head to the crowd, which fell instantly silent. In a slow wave, every head turned to the vampire queen, who stood rigid as steel near the back of the ballroom, head lifted high. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his baritone booming overhead. "My advisor, my friend - one of our own. Is this how low you've fallen, that you will kill your own kin for petty vengeance on me?" He let the words hang, watched her purple eyes seek to understand his game, and seeing it too late. "TREASON!"

[Phoelidae]

”ATARAXIA!” Her name sounded like a curse, booming from the depths of hell. She froze, taken off guard, her spine stiff and her wrists arched to loosen her wires if needed. The sound of her name echoed in her skull, a reminder of the hundreds of times Nihilo had shouted at her that same way, before striking her for some small misstep in her training. He had told her, once, that her name was Greek for serenity and calmness - a cruel and hilarious irony. The sound of her name had never brought her any peace.

She turned, slowly, to face the center of the room, where she knew she would find her brother. Her twin. They had shared a womb once - it was a small miracle he hadn’t killed her as a fetus. Maybe that was what should have happened, and everything since had been the world trying to right itself, and correct for the presence of two Paradins. The whole of the ball had fallen silent in response to Kestrel’s call, and heads turned toward her like the crowd was part of one organism, the countless legs of a centipede moving away from her. She felt like the world was falling away from her feet, her throat closing like Kestrel’s fist was already clasped around it.

He was saying words, lies, things she didn’t understand. What was he talking about? This was all wrong, she hadn’t had anyone killed, she would never jeopardize her own plans like that. Where was Jack, where was Ilia? Noora? Surely someone would vouch for her that this was a mistake - her eyes flickered madly around the room, trying to understand, and realizing an instant too late that it was no mistake, it was a lie. She looked up, straight into her brother’s green eyes, and would have sworn that for an instant one of those eyes was blue and one was purple. She felt the impulse to retch, realizing that she had been caught in her own trap. Everyone was here, hungry for blood, eager to witness someone fall - and she had been outplayed. She hadn’t even had the chance to put her plans into motion. Either fate dearly loved Kestrel Paradin, or he had planned this all along, and she’d never had a chance, playing into his web since the moment she decided to play his game by his rules. She should have known.

The silence rang like the long-dead bells of Notre Dame, before his voice cracked it again. ”TREASON!” He called, and it sounded to her like the cry of a vulture. The carrion birds in the rest of the crowd took up the call, cackling and muttering in a crescendo of scandal and curiosity. Since she had taken the throne, Ataraxia had said that she was only interested in ruling to serve her kin, to keep them all safe and alive, and now she would kill one of them simply for revenge? Hadn’t it been she who had killed Kestrel, their greatest and most fearsome leader, in the first place, letting the Jackal decimate their ranks and forcing them scatter through New Londontown? How many had lost friends and kinsmen on that long, long night when the Leech King fell?

But then there were others too, those who whispered that Ataraxia must have had her reasons, that she had only ever acted in their interests - unlike Kestrel, who had only ever acted in his own. A rising tide lifts all boats, but wouldn’t Kestrel burn the fleet if it would serve his purposes better? He had no loyalty, no sense of duty, he sought only to further his own power and pleasure. Maybe Ataraxia was a cold queen, but at least she was a responsible one, fair and just and not capricious as the king had been when he reigned supreme …

The noise grew and grew, and Ataraxia knew she had to act. All eyes were on her as she lifted her head and pointed a long, black-clad finger at Kestrel. ”You are a LIAR, Kestrel! YOU had her killed, killed a vampire loyal to you simply to frame me for it! You are a disgrace, a shame on our kind, and an abomination. I swear on our parents’ grace that I will destroy you, and kill you again. And I will show everyone where your true loyalties lie!”

She focused every ounce of power and training she possessed, and shot like an arrow across the room, scarcely visible as more than a streak of red, black, and unfurling silver wire. Not toward her brother.

Toward his only weakness. The Jackal.

She was not far away, glorious and glittering in the lights, dressed to seduce, just as Noora had promised. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could still show them all Kestrel’s true nature. She had no idea if she truly had the power to defeat the Jackal, but she was certain it wouldn’t actually come to that.

If there were voices, she didn’t hear them. She only heard the slither of her wires unfurling, cutting through the air toward Mercia’s throat. Three ….. Two ………….. One …………………..

She was slammed sideways, catching the full brunt of her brother’s tackle. Ataraxia gasped to refill her lungs, and felt some small flare of victory that he hadn’t disappointed her. He had just saved the life of the Midnight Jackal, for all to see. She caught herself on one knee and leapt back to her feet, but Kestrel was there, impossibly fast, closing his fist around her throat and slamming her skull into the marble floor. Her visions exploded into a chaos of stars and dark holes, and laughter came streaming out of her as she slammed her heel into his stomach, shoving him off of her. She rolled and lurched to her feet, still laughing wildly, whipping her wires toward him.

”There, you see? I told you. He would kill us all if the Jackal asked!” Her face was twisted into an awful mockery of a smile, the crowd parting around them as Kestrel lunged forward and she leapt back.

”Really Ataraxia? And you killed me, for no reason than your own pride! You could have let the Jackal kill us all, just to satisfy yourself. You want nothing, care for nothing, see only noble ideas that will have us all living in harmony as we sleep beside our enemies and let them kill us in our sleep - if you don’t do it for them.” He caught three wires in one fist, blood streaming down his wrist as he used them to wrench her off balance, but he had done that before and she was expecting it. He was only armed with a dagger from his boot, the fool, and she twisted out of his reach. She flicked her left wrist, sending the wires of her other hand back toward the Jackal, and Kestrel caught them on his arm, gritting his fangs as the metal cut his forearm to the bone. His reach was incredible though, and Ataraxia buckled, realizing too late that he’d brought his foot down hard enough to fracture her kneecap. Dazed, she struggled to stand, as Kes worked to free himself from her wires. In the momentary pause, Ataraxia looked up, her violet eyes on fire as she looked at the crowd. ”Well? What are you all waiting for?”

Chaos erupted.

[Lovenian]

If there was ever a reason why Chen occupied himself as an assassin, it was because he hated being in crowds. The cocktail of ancient smells; dead skin, chemical perfumes, musty cloth, hair wax… It made him uneasy to slip between the walking corpses. But he was a man of honor, and would do the duties he was asked to perform if it brought him one step closer to exacting the revenge his soul hungered for.

Forced against his will, he waded through the ocean of well-dressed vampires and beasts, biding his time by staying around the perimeter of the room while still walking with some intent or purpose in his face to not attract undivided attention. He listened through all the buzzing of words, the whispers of telepathy, to find Henry’s voice in the thickness, focusing on when the time would be right to approach. The time was counting down, and he had yet to see Walter…

Though he remained on task, this pause was an opportune moment to get eyes on targets of importance. Since his arrival in Paris, he had few chances to get out into the city and focus on intelligence. Around the room his blank eyes scanned over the faces, detailing to memory who they were, their outfit, their scent and the sound of their voice.
There was that petty excuse for an assassin, Vilen Lagunov. He’d made himself a face claim this evening if he’d ever seen one. Fighting with one of his own in such a spectacle was not exactly tactful or in good taste.
Next to him was the werebeast lieutenant, Maeve Donovan. By her body language and expression, she aught to be more stern with her subordinates. She was too caring, too weak to pass judgements and give reprimands. Though she may be centuries old, there was little mystery left about her that Chen did not know. She wore it very clearly on her sleeve.
Whom he was truly looking to put eyes one was Noora Jokelinen, the Jackal’s right hand and also acclaimed hitman. Noora was someone he took note of, due to her mildly impressive network, arrange of skills, and history in firearms. She was well versed and trained in combat, and likely to be Chen’s biggest obstacle in all this. He had yet to see her this evening, about as much as the Jackal herself, but there was no doubt in his mind that she was looming and watching her Queen closely.

Then there was the vampires, none of which seemed to matter anymore since he’d taken out one of Kestrel’s best, and the other child-vampire was ousted by a mercenary. The two strongest left remained Kestrel and Ataraxia. There was that one scallywag, Jack Fletcher; perhaps the only other person here seeming to skulk about like him, but he was a wishy-washy soldier that got himself into too much trouble for what it was worth. He was barely a threat at all.


Chen’s attention snapped back as a movement in his King’s conversation changed, and he began making his way towards Henry and Kestrel’s location at the center of the ballroom, casually but with some urgency as any good waiter would.

With each determined step of his approach, the Mephisto assassin began to feel the tingling sensation of eagerness become tainted by the rage of realization. Kestrel Paradin, the one who made him suffer, who ordered his demise after years of service; who destroyed his humanity for nothing; was before him and in his grasp. He could kill him, here and now; before them all; and be free of the suffrage in his soul, the ghosts that haunted his honor and family. He would be free to pass on, ridding himself of the corpse he hosted-- the menace that murdered his mother and his sanity.
All, of course, if it weren’t for his allegiance to Henry Fitzroy. Hal, though sometimes misguided by his crazed delusions of justice, had sound judgement and a firm plan to rid the world of all this evil. He was a strong leader. In the bitter end, Chen would follow that plan to exact exactly what was needed to be done to save himself the trouble.

So with each step closing the gap between them, Chen muted his feelings, his face, and resumed the role he was meant to play.
He met his Master with a quizzical brow, Hal greeting him with a delighted gasp he had practiced for years as a royal. Upon his command, the assassin nodded and flicked his gaze towards Kestrel. He held it only for a moment, just long enough to take in each detail of his new-found features: The long dark hair, his pasty white skin with the powdered texture, a softness to the petal pink of his lips. His features were straight and sharp, more so now than they ever were, his jawline and nose thin and striking. His eyes held the man he used to know, a blazing fire behind them that trusted no-one and could not be tamed. With all that etched into his memory, Chen looked down to the platter he’d been holding for several minutes, and opened his Pandora’s Box.

The shrill ringing of the silver as the lid came up off the platter was nearly enough to silence the room, and set a beautiful moment in time as Bedelia’s face looked on to Kestrel with gaping dispair. He kept his gaze averted to see Kestrel’s fists tighten slowly, and he grinned inwardly.
But plan quickly fell apart. Kestrel’s long pause suggested that there was more at work that he anticipated. Perhaps they had come off too strong… As the King’s spoke, he shot a glare out towards the crowd about them, looking for Walter, but he presence was completely gone. Chen’s head spun around as Kestrel grasped the head from the platter and bellowed a call to his sister in treason. With all bets off, he snarled and looked to his master to release his muzzle, but Hal held him back firmly as the fight began to unfold.

Together, assassin and king watched as the Paradin Twins battled it out for dominance, evenly matched in their power. As soon as they broke, the Red Death roared, “What are you waiting for?!” and Chen took that as the cue.
With force he slammed the contents of the platter onto the three nearest vampire patrons to his right, flipped the platter up, and flung it like a saucer with enough force to decapitate anyone in it’s path. Naturally, a party of this size, there was going to be conflict, and an assassin never comes unprepared. Within his waistcoat he withdrew an extending pike, a sharp-tipped blade at the end eager to feel the impact of flesh and bone. Over his shoulder he caught Henry slicing through unprepared vampires and beasts with his sword, and flashed a rotted, crooked grin.

The battle clambered on but it was short lived. Though many lost their lives, the entirety of Paris’ vampire population had turned out. No matter the odds, the Mephisto and the Beasts would be overcome. Even though many did not come armed, there was enough strength in numbers and in panic to cause damage, and the Mephisto race was not yet ready for the warfare…
Chen severed a spine and turned on his heels, crouching low to stab the blade of his javelin into the tailbone of another. His eyes could barely catch sight of Henry anymore, and their General was nowhere to be found. That was not good enough. It was time to retreat.



Back at the estate house, the pair of them entered together, both in rather distasteful moods. Hal, when in his tempers, tended to go off, even if it wasn’t to anyone in particular, until it was out of his system. As the large oak doors slammed back on their hinges, he followed his Master’s enraged march to the Great Hall, taking into his arms each torn or bloodstained garment Hal ripped off his person as he walked.

“There was more at work that I did not see. The Paradin Twins have been playing one another, a game under the table.” Hal growled as he approached the water basin on the long dining table.
The silence was clear with how long the echoes bounced back from the darkness. Hal began to wash his face, pulling the makeup from his skin to reveal just how in dire need he was of their life-blood. The skin of his hands, his face and neck were like wet paper, thin and nearly translucent to the lightning strikes of veins underneath in royal hues of blue, violet and sometimes green.
“We cannot be underhanded. Walter should have been aware of this. Their meeting never went as planned due to his incomparable arrogance. And that same ego lends me to have to ask, ‘Where is my ******** General!?’”

Chen looked away and tossed the clothing to the side, now only good for rags. The soft clicking of heels on the stone floor ricocheted louder as they approached. The assassin’s glare shot up to see their apothecary’s dark visage before Henry would.
Rosemary Unsworth was a strange case, and one Chen had yet to decide if he trusted. A woman, of all things, who could control his fate was not in his opinion a good person to be trusted. Hal’s faith in her was as deeply routed in his own ideologies of the Mephisto race, and highly due to her ability to keep them alive. But how far did her own needs run, and where did her loyalties lie? She was a witch, and a bloody good one. Her reputation as the Mother Mary of NewLondontown preceded her, now with such a dark-skinned, young body. She was a mystical force few in their world could deny.

He watched, hands clasped behind his back as he waited for his King’s demands, when his mind was clear enough and settled. Hal slung himself back into the chair, Rosemary coming around to take his blood pressure and vitals, “Find him.” He ordered, “And hope he has a valid excuse for his worthlessness.”
Chen nodded once and turned, stepping back into the shadows of the room without footsteps to be heard.


The search for Walter began with little information to go off of. He prepared himself and his belongings, and set out back to the chateau to begin scavenging for clues. Those mortals who had survived were gone, the whole place redecorated with the corpses of vampires, beasts and demons alike. Lanterns flickered and the large crystal chandelier sparked from where it hung precariously on two non-supporting wires. Blood pooled and dripped into every crack, along the banisters and walls, staining each surface it touched.
Chen spent careful time looking over the bodies, but none of them produced his General. The next course of action was to find where exactly he had gone. If it had been between their entrance and the plan’s execution, he only had a few opportunities to abandon them, and that was assuming he wasn’t here for the carnage.

With the scents of mingled blood and filth overpowering his senses, the assassin took flight, up to the rooftop to breath an only slightly cleaner air. Paris still reeked of feces and filth, but it was subtle enough he could concentrate.
It was on his ascent that he caught him, Walter’s scent. Chen had not figured the man remained in the building and hadn’t bothered to search. He would lash himself later for his poor practice. Upon on the third floor, and by then Chen knew Walter was but only a corpse, the scent got stronger but no living senses remained. His General was dead.
When he reached the door of the bedroom beyond, he could hear the shuffling and ticking heart of the murderer within. So, quickly then, up to the roof he dashed like a bolt of lightning, and then down the exterior wall to the drain gutters. He walked the trellis and slipped in with the shadows from off the sill.

He could barely believe his own eyes. Such a petite, frail thing she was. Walter’s corpse was strung out, headless and draining itself of blood. And there she sat, motionless and in the void. For several long minutes he watched her, entranced by something away from her, his breathing slowed and his heart in time with her own. He was unsure if it could have truly been her that killed him, but his General had always been weak to the thrills and wiles of women.
When she had finally clued in that something was amiss, she directed her attention to her peculiar situation.

The pair bickered, and the longer she fought with him the stronger the desire to just kill her then and there. But, a hesitance held him back. There was no need for unnecessary kills, it would create a rift with Henry. This one, this… girl, she had a distinct smell of The Red Death about her, and it would not do well to kill her if she was of some importance. How he had not known of her until now was curious to Chen, but he would find a bitter happiness in being the cause of her eventual insanity. Little did she know what he had in store for her. A death, of course, of slow and painful madness.
“I’ll kill you. I absolutely will. I had no problem with Walter, why shouldn't I end you too?”

He laughed, “Because you cannot.”


He drifted back into the darkness, slipping out from where he came, and rested himself upon the rooftop ledge of the adjacent home. Biding his time, he watched her struggle to remain calm, and only once she felt safe did she clean up and leave. His anger towards her still bubbled, insulted that she had killed his prize and then left it for him to do with what he pleased. Walter had been a dream of his to kill… The poisoned dart in his fingertips snapped at the force he put on it. But, at the end of it all, he was finished and gone. Hal would be very unhappy, but now was Chen’s chance to be higher within the ranks.

He gathered up the remains of Walter Ayer, and set out returning to Henry’s estate.

[Pax Britannica]

• ♛ℬ ᴇ ᴡ ᴀ ʀ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴊ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ᴀ ʟ ʜ ᴏ ᴡ ʟ s ʜ ᴇ ʟ ᴏ ᴏ ᴋ s ғ ᴏ ʀ ʙ ʟ ᴏ ᴏ ᴅ ᴀ ɴ ᴅ ᴀ ʟ ᴡ ᴀ ʏ s ғ ɪ ɴ ᴅ s ɪ ᴛ
  〉〉 ❛α נαcкαƖ ɗσєѕη'т cσηcєяη нєяѕєƖf ωιтн тнє σριηιση σf ѕнєєρ❜ ««
  
  Mercia Addison moved through the crowd like it meant nothing to her. It didn’t. This entire exercise was pointless, and she was disappointed with her General for putting so much weight on it. People tended to assume that because she was a ruthless, efficient killer, that she was also a brute, with no mind for strategy. But they were wrong. Jackals often hunted and fought alone, and a lonely existence was not one that allowed for stupidity. She simply thought that many, especially the vampires, and especially Kestrel, spent too long outmaneuvering each other in petty games for meaningless prizes. When one lived a millenia, one learned that there are very few worth fighting for, with claws, words, or any other weapon. Kestrel’s pride should not have been one of them.
  
  She had stopped near the long, burdened banquet hall, an obvious overture of friendship toward the beasts, since the vast majority of vampires chose to forego human food. Although, when her golden eyes fell on a grossly corpuscular vampire helping himself to an entire tray of tarts, she thought perhaps it was different in Paris, this city that was so safe for all the hell-spawn. She watched him waddle away, and wondered if vampires could get fat, or if he’d been turned that way. She assumed that it didn’t matter - the fat ones couldn’t run fast enough to last long.
  
  It was clear that no expense had been spared on the spread - suckling pig, fine pastries, fruity wines, even fresh produce, the rarest of foods now that the sun never shown. She still remembered the tart sweetness of the wild strawberries from her homeland, but it was a distant memory, and faded when she took a bite of something that aspired to be an apple. The bland, mealy meat of the fruit, grown in an artificial greenhouse with the most hackneyed of technology, couldn’t hold a candle to what the real thing had tasted like.
  
  For a moment, she thought the scent that tickled her nose might be her imagination, a reaction to the sub-par fruit, but then she took another breath and realized she ought to trust her canid senses. She inhaled again, deeply, and could not mistake it - the thick, nauseating scent of rot. Meat, eggs, flesh, it all blended together past a certain point of stench. It was faint, just a whiff that she almost had to turn her head to catch. What was rotting, here in the heart of Kestrel’s grand ball? Well, what was rotting physically, anyway. Her golden eyes flicked scarlet, just before she closed them in a sweep of thick lashes. She moved her focus from her ears to her nose, trying to follow the thread of the strange scent. Something was off about it, it wasn’t the smell of vampire, but something more acrid …
  
  The Jackal spent a long moment scenting the room, none daring to disturb her trance. But finally even she had to admit defeat - there were simply too many stinking bodies muddling the trail. Whatever it was, it was faint. Perhaps there was a vampire here who’d been turned too late, and couldn’t shake the scent of the grave as well as his cold compatriots. Mercia turned back to the table, tearing a huge leg of turkey off the intact bird with no difficulty. She lifted the leg to her mouth, biting into it with her fangs and pouting mouth, heedless of her finery and makeup that Noora and Maeve had so carefully prepared.
  
  “ATARAXIA!”
  
  The sound of Kestrel’s voice called to her, even more than what he said. The Jackal turned slowly, still removing chunks of meat with her teeth, to watch what was unfolding. The incorrigible Leech King stood in the center of the room, hoisting a bloody head high and pointing it accusingly toward his twin. At a distance, the blood, the red hair, and the swollen pallor of death made it almost resemble the head she kept in her caravan car. She did not know who it was, but Kestrel seemed displeased to have her dead. Mercia’s eyes turned the color of blood, but she chewed and swallowed and took another bite. Watching.
  
  The drama unfolded, sibling against sibling, a tragedy fit for a bard. In truth, the Jackal could not regard the twins as brother and sister - there was none of the love between them that she’d felt for her own sisters and brothers. Their relation to one another was an accident and nothing more. Ataraxia rejected the accusations and spat back, saying things Mercia was inclined to agree with. Surely no one really thought that Kestrel was an altruistic leader? But martyrs made even worse leaders than dictators, so the Red Queen’s complaints were poorly founded.
  
  A moment later, Ataraxia turned and lunged toward her, silver wires extended. Mercia’s fingers curled tighter around the turkey bone, and her muscles tightened imperceptibly as she watched the tall woman approach. She was coming too slow - The Midnight Jackal would have more than enough time to drop to the floor, sweep the other woman’s long legs from beneath her, grab her from behind, dislocate one of her shoulders, and (possibly) remove her head with her clawed hands.
  
  But she was robbed of the chance when Kestrel appeared, placing himself in front of her like an idiot. Annoyance flickered across her mouth for an instant - did he think she needed protecting, from such a poorly executed attack? The idea was laughable. Perhaps it wasn’t as reasonable as all that though - perhaps it was that pesky instinct, that monstrous drive she had to be near him, to have him, to protect him before she killed him. Mate his ghost whispered in her mind, but she pushed the thought away. It was a reality she could not afford, an abomination and an insult, and she refused to acknowledge it.
  
  The siblings flew at each other like spitting cats, taking the chance for any bitter, underhanded attack they could land. Mercia could smell the bloodlust rising, the tension that had been kept tightly coiled through this ball, throughout the circus and the caravan and the ship ride, everything that they had been through since leaving New Londontown, ratchet to an entirely new level. She felt it herself, hungry to see the vampires spill each other’s blood, hungry for a taste of the same. This truce went against nature on all sides, and the impossibility of it had finally reached a boiling point with the vampires turning on their own kind. Kestrel and Ataraxia were ripping the leeches apart, and the beasts were eager to help.
  
  The Red Queen buckled first, looking up from her place on one crippled knee and imploring her supporters to rally and help her. Mercia’s ruby eyes caught the first vampire to move to her aid, intercepted immediately by another leech. Like a stone dropped in a still pond, the fight spilled in ripples through the crowd, until suddenly the once-cordial ball had become a bloodbath. For the most part the vampires were targeting their own, and the Best Queen could feel the queries of her kin, wondering if they could enter the fray.
  
  One, enterprising vampire wanted to answer that question. He saw an opportunity, and rushed headlong toward the beast queen. She swallowed the last bite of turkey off the bone, and then used her strength to break the bone into two splintered halves. She met the foolish vampire halfway, faster than he ever expected, and slammed one half of the bone through his ribs, into his mechanical heart. It made a horrific screeching noise as the cogs tried to turn around the bone, and then gave up, the fool collapsing. He hadn’t even hit the floor before Mercia moved on to the next vampire, not distinguishing between Kestrel and Ataraxia’s followers. A leech was a leech, and they all had to die for this to end. She plunged the other half of the bone into another heart. Her delicate fingers found a jaw, the other hand found a pair of sockets (once she’d taken care of the eyes), and a female vampire gave a bloodcurdling scream before her jaw broke off and her skull collapsed with sickening snap of sinew and crack of bone.
  
  The vampires were killing each other. They weren’t likely to have a chance like this again, and the Moon Called had waited too long for blood. The Midnight Jackal tossed her head back and lifted her voice in a howl that rang all the way through the manor, and was taken up by the beasts scattered throughout the crowd. The vampires might have outnumbered them in bodies, but in force they were outmatched. The beasts rushed into battle, redoubling the sounds of breaking bone and spilling blood.
  
  The screams were music to her ears. Perhaps this ball wasn’t so pointless after all.
  
  
  
  

[Legal Rehab]

“We desire what will destroy us in the end.”
— Sylvia Plath,
----------------- "It's not going back to what it was, Sparrow. I’m not your pretty little ********. You owe me...” she threatened.
----------------- The heat of Ilia’s body only fanned the flames of his passion. Ilia, a cold-blooded vampire, was burning from his desire. As she turned away Blitzen leaned forward to grab her from behind, wrapping his forearms around her bosom and neck, the smell of clean linens and chamomile filled his senses as he smelled her locks of raven hair against his face. How could something so familiar feel so foreign? Blitzen held her in place, he wanted her to sigh or tell him to stop, even gasp, none of it phased her. Even just a breath of disgust to let him know he had gotten through to her, but nothing. Her face lay flat as still water, which drove him mad with perversion.
----------------- “Ilia I am no selfish lover, While I do fancy a bit of action I can satisfy your other needs as well.” Blitzen looked at his surroundings and kept himself as vague as possible all while edging his fingers closer to her hips, warming the vampire’s body with his touch. The conversation hinted towards her body, though Blitzen was speaking of something much more valuable than what lay within her legs. With the depravity of their conversation, he was sure any open ears were doing their best to not hear them, albeit he spoke in a low tongue. “I don’t often mix business with pleasure, but I can make an exception for you…” He rested his head on her shoulder, still holding her from behind, “Tell me what it is you want, or I’ll have to start making assumptions.”
----------------- She bit her lip to mask her smile, her satisfaction at him being so openly salacious. Tilting her head, a small giggle escaped her. "You are wanton, Sparrow..." [/color]Ilia easily pushed him away his fingers, before taking them into her own. "Don't be fooled, little bird. I can satisfy my own needs, I learned how to long before we ever married. But you, you always..." she murmured, suddenly bashful, "you always bemuse me, the lengths you go to to please me." She smiled, thinking of all of the times he had crawled before her, begging for her hand after he had done something to make her cross. She reached up to his head on her shoulder, running her fingers through his feathery hair, then gripping it and pulling him to look at her face. Her eyes held a certain mischief, a triumphant sort of pleasure at him wanting to know what she pined for.
----------------- That smile of yours, Blitzen thought to himself, in how many lifetimes have I seen this face?
----------------- Blitzen took her into his mouth, biting her lips and pulling them away. The two wrapped their bodies around eachother tight as wire. He felt amazed that the woman he had touched so many times in the past felt so new. The last time they both made love they were human, bound by the limits of their fragile health. Now they were connected as immortals Blitzen grunted to her in hot breaths, "I care not if I am to be a fool, I've no desire to please anyone but the two of us. I only give you what you deserve."
----------------- The act in it's entirety was depraved. In this shoddy medical tent with only a flap of canvas guarding their privacy, anyone could easily have seen such debauchery. Has anyone gotten word out about this rendezvous they would both be flayed and executed once more… and this time they wouldn’t come back from it. In between the moving of her lips, he looked into her eyes and saw no fear in either of them. In fact... he enjoyed it. The thrill of dying in the act, a bystander hearing them, being exposed in the buff, it drove him manic in fervor. Blitzen pushed her over, with her head on the foot of the bed and his leg lame and behind him, his hair fell forward and he balanced his arms upon her shoulders, his lips traveled all across her body, kissing Ilia in places she had not been touched since. Nothing was the same as Ilia, their relationship was like oil and water, or the wind and sea... yet never one without the other.
----------------- Ilia let out a startled moan as her husband pushed her into the bed, perching himself precariously on her, barely balanced. As he kissed his way down her body, laden with goose-bumps, she squirmed. Concern filled her expression and she squeezed his hand, making him pause. Blitzen looked up to her, half determined and half crazed. "You'll hurt yourself further, doing that like this. You'll rip your stitches, you idiot, I didn't spend all that time sewing you up for you to act this carelessly." she pouted, wriggling out from under him.
----------------- "That almost sounds like a dare, dearest," Blitzen murmured, the state of his body far from his mind and worries. She gently guided him to a laying position once more, back to straddling him, her hands over her petite bust.
----------------- "These are still your favorite, yes..?" she smiled, her confident expression making her face alight in a way it rarely was. She exposed herself, wanting him to see the body that had been through so much pain, so much hardship, to return to him. Blitzen constrained himself to take her in full force. His hands traveled gently at first, appreciating her body as the diamond it truly was. He had not truly appreciated anything in a long time before this, fascinated by every inch of her skin, forever thankful that it was is. Ilia took his wrist, gently, guiding it to her mouth to kiss his fingertips sweetly. Her soft lips enveloped the tip of his index finger, before releasing it and letting his hand fall to her bosom. Her eyes contained fire, a fire for him, the same fire that burned brightly when she was just a young girl. Though he was often awful, selfish and a liar, he was still hers, all hers. They had forged a promise, til death do them part, and now death could not even part them.
----------------- "Show me how much you missed me, Sparrow." she purred as she lifted her skirts, beckoning him to touch her further. Blitzen gripped tightly to her waist before letting one hand fall to Ilia. The other hand grasped for hers and guided her fingertips along the curve of his arms, following the strong veins around his wrist.
----------------- "All of this time you've been covered in my blood, the blood of a were. Do tell, are you not curious of what my blood will do to you?" As Ilia leaned forward, Blitzen brushed his scared hands across the delicate points of her face. "I'll show you much more than my longing for you," He let out a cry of pain and pleasure as pain shot through his legs once more, going out of his way to get caught. The thrill of murder was most sweet after a tumble between sheets, he dared someone, anyone to interrupt the two.
----------------- "I'm going to make a mess out of you, Ilia Anmas."
----------------- Hunger reflected in her eyes as her fingers traced along his veins, her body seeming to move instinctually as she leaned inward, going for his neck. Startled at his moan, she brought her hand to his face, her fingers momentarily at his lips. "Hush, hush..." she whispered, bringing her own lips to his. "I have no patience for your drawl, Sparrow." she laughed as she kissed him, unable to hide her smile behind the passionate gesture. Carefully, cautiously, she kissed down his chin, to his jawline, then to his neck. Giving his collarbone a playful bite, she remarked, "though I've never tasted the blood of a beast..." She felt him shudder, and her hand traveled down his throat, past his collarbones and then even lower. The other hand squeezed his. "I cannot wait."
----------------- Silver fangs piercing his flesh like a steak knife through butter. A heavy sigh escaped her as his warm blood spilled out over her chin and dripped onto her bare chest. Her bite was not timid, like playful lovers, but that of a bear snapping the neck of her kill. Blitzen felt magma running through his veins, jostling every sense in his frame. His moans eventually caused her to pause, lapping up the blood and then kissing him, leaving deep red smeared all around his mouth as she bit down on his mouth to quiet him.
----------------- Covered in his own blood, Blitzen bit into Ilia's lips and bore his nails deep into her shoulderblades; he was determined to leave his mark just as she had left hers. "Never?" he spoke in broken syllables, his body writhing in pain and sensation. The torment made him twinge, yet just when he thought he could take no more a wave of pleasure overtook him, making every kiss and touch sweeter. The pristine nurse who patched him away was becoming his wildfire once more, "Do you remember?" He whispered, "We would ravage each other every night... and day... and just whenever no one was looking..." He noticed with every thrust of their bodies the cot squeaked more. The two gave up on being quiet, "I'll take you now just as I did then, just think how vivid my blood will be in our moments of ecstasy, no?"
----------------- Blitzen pushed her legs around him until they were wrapped like iron. Blitzen pushed his fingers through the lining of her garments, breathing hot breaths into the ear of his risen beloved. Blood continued to trickle from his wound, staining Ilia's pearl skin. A demented laughter came over Blitzen, he wanted Ilia to be scared, frightful and worried for her life. Ilia was none of these things/ "We have found what we are both looking for. Make love to me Ilia," He never broke away from her eyes, sitting up he felt their bodies combine as one again. "Feast upon me, lose the control you have built upon all of our years apart."
----------------- He was to break Ilia, no matter what she had been through, the woman that drove him to manical euphoria was still in there. He became the embodiment of lust. "You won't kill me," he whispered.
----------------- Ilia moaned, her cheek pressed against Blitzen's neck. "Yes, I remember!" she cried, her arms around his body, fingernails digging into him as she bit him again, again, again in gluttonous holiday. Her bite marks overlapped, a constellation of bloody gouges on his skin, she could not bring herself to stop. The blood of humans seemed like saltwater after the taste of a beast’s blood. Blitzen was warm, succulent, sweet and every bite tasted just like the first of a glorious meal.
----------------- "I remember in the commons, behind the palace, on the kitchen countertop while the maid was in the next room," Ilia babbled breathlessly, her doe eyes wide with fever, they rolled upward as she felt him, her hips quivering. Her whole body seemed to quake as she ran her hands through her hair, messing it in the throes of pleasure. "A-ah, I want to feel what's inside of you..." she shook once more, envisioning his innards splayed out before her, him helpless and afraid. Ilia draped her arms over his shoulders to look into his eyes. A hazy, almost love-drunk look came about her as she went along, moving as if she were scratching an itch deep within her. With each thrust Blitzen pushed Ilia's hips to and away from him. He pressed his chest against hers as her arms flailed around him, feeling the pounding of his heart against the ambient clicking of her own. Broken bones and dithering muscles cried for him to stop, while his passion riled him along.
----------------- "I have wanted you for so long, nothing is the same. No woman can give to me what you give to me." Ilia faded in and out of reality before him. If she was to be a dream, he would not lose her. Images of Ilia flashed in his mind. Images of her corpse, Lektyr’s greedy smile, rifles and bayonets pointed, dying at Ilia’s side. When his wife had exclaimed in pleasure, she sounded just as she did when the firing squad drove their bullets into her heart. He wanted to protect her, he wanted Ilia to be only his, so much so he was willing to kill her.
----------------- Blitzen took her head in his hands, pushing at her throat and smearing crimson gore upon her painted face. His skin turned red with sweat and his blood boiled. "Taste me, is this the sweet Sparrow you recall?" The Ilia before him was ten fold better than the Ilia he had fantasized about so often. I'll make you mine once more, he thought to himself. He pulled Ilia down forcefully, so much so that the support of the cot cracked under the pressure. Jars of medical supplies began to tumble off the shelves, if no one heard them before surely everyone heard them now. Blitzen was no longer mortal, a beast from within him arose and Ilia was just a little bird in the eye of the Great Falcon.
----------------- Her wide eyes stared into his, starstruck with pleasure as their hips collided again and again and again. A howl escaped from her when he pulled her down, and she covered her mouth with a bloody hand. Blitzen heard her speak but the words were lost upon him. She sounded like angels singing, and also like a dying animal. Her breaths against his neck were shallow and quick, her legs and arms wrapped around him. She was a mess, her makeup smeared, shades of red splattered across her pale skin.
----------------- "Yes, it's amazing," a desperate moan finished her sentence. Ilia became restless and insatiable, trying to push herself over the edge. One of her hands traveled to Blitzen's, squeezing it hard. She wanted to feel unity they and everything to do with him, the ugly parts of him and the good. It was all hers, every bit of him. She would have him all.
----------- Her words hardly got through to him, Blitzen was beyond primal. "No," he grunted, "I'm not done with you yet." Just as she was his, he was hers. This was it, not even the most bedded whore could give him this bliss. His moans of passions became deeper until he flared up and let out roars of devotion. His body started to go numb from pleasure, something he thought impossible as he brought both of them to an end.ught impossible as he brought both of them to an end.

---

----------------- The look in her eyes was heavenly. She was covered in blood, sweat and bruises of affection. She was dripping with elation, the two of them frolicking in wonder feeling pleasure they had never felt before. All of the pain had been worth it, it seemed miniscule to the mirth jostling inside him. Blitzen fell upon her, submitting himself to her. For the wreckage he had made of her, he felt satisfied on his promise. For all that she had done to him, he returned two fold and more. His chin rested on her shoulder, his chest pressed against hers as they lay once more like human lovers. He could not feel anything but the soft brushing of her fingers on the back of his neck, amazed once more that she accepted a psychopath like him. He was reminded once more that Ilia was not unlike him in that aspect.
----------------- "I love you," Blitzen muttered, vulnerable to the only living being he could ever trust. He found himself deep, deep in her web, knowing full well of the danger. However, that was a worry for another day.
----------------- She collapsed inward, huffing as she felt him leave her, her hand stil clasped in his. Gently, in thought, she grazed her fingers against the back of his neck, warm and feverish skin comforting her. Ilia mused about the future, the past and even current happenings. Pushing away those thoughts, she murmured, Little whimpers escaped her as she came down, her entire body feeling like she had taken a warm bath. It was hazy, the feeling just before one delves into sleep.
----------------- "We need to get you cleaned up."
----------------- Never a girl for an outright confession of love, Ilia only once or twice told him she loved him whilst not in the throes of passion. She was too stone-faced to let him have that, an admission, though one could say the look on her eyes as she ran a washcloth over his skin was enough of one. Each inch of his body she took inventory of. She loved his bitten nails, his veiny arms, every scar and mark. Her lips parted in contemplation. "Sparrow, you said you'd give me what I deserve, no?" The facade of a blissful life was gone, he knew it all along. It wouldn't be as simple as sex, they both had other commitments that took priority... Or so he wanted her to think. Without shame Blitzen continued the conversation nude. He enjoyed watching Ilia dress just as much as he did in reverse.
----------------- "Yes, you want something right? Something we can't discuss here, right?" Blitzen threw himself back up on the shambling cot, admittedly proud of the wreckage around them. "Don't think this injury will stop me, I have many birds. They tell me things I do not know myself." Blitzen looked at his stitching, tightly woven with intricacy, exactly what he would expect from Ilia. "I'll need medical attention, you get me back on my feet and I'll help you do the same. Do we have a deal, nurse?"
----------------- Ilia smiled smugly, adoring how he knew almost exactly what she wanted, just from one question; after all those years, his instinct for her never faded. As she pulled her hair up into its signature serious-business-ponytail, the look in her eyes was as loving, if not more, as it was when they first married. She scooped his head up in her hands and kissed his forehead. Both of them knew that he had nothing better to do than to serve her, as he did before, when they were young. He acted as if he were a busy man with things to tend to... but she knew that those things he needed to tend to was actually her. He was her world, just as she was his.
----------------- "Yes, my dear patient."

[Phoenix Skyy]

The parade of Mercia was something to behold, or so she would have believed had she been part of the crowd. The petite, doll-like queen carried herself effortlessly, her posture perfect and practiced, but with an air only centuries of sovereignty could produce. From her position at Mercia’s left, Maeve was almost befuddled by the endless parting of the crowd as the moved through. (After all, she spent her many centuries blending in, not standing out.)

What did not perplex her, only disgusted her. They passed numbers of their kind whom hadn’t reached out to join their ranks amongst the crowd. What craven, selfish creatures all of them were. Pathetic in feigning aristocracy to delight in splendors. Their peoples were born as warriors of their breeds; they wouldn’t last a second on the battlefield. It was this thought that erased her disgust from her face, but disapproval radiated off of her. Those nameless faces in the crowd may not have stood a chance in a fight, but they were keeping less than desirable company. A close friend was doing the same as these beasts, and even then she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, but at least he had the courage to join the ranks.

It was in the midst of these thoughts that shards like rain came crashing to the ground and crowd backed away like a frightened school of fish. Instinctively, Maeve moved towards her queen, ready to attack, but then a body dropped amongst the glass with an echoing crack. Another figure joined it, landing smoothly, the glass breaking beneath his feet. From her prerefial vision she could see Mercia give a glance to either of her escorts, and they jumped into action. Surging forward, Maeve’s eyes scanned over both of them, but they were instantly recognizable. Blitzen Bell was lying broken and bleeding on the floor while Vilen seemed prepared to attack again.

Within a few steps she was behind him, pulling his arm back and spinning him around to meet her stare. He snarled, a deep and primitive sound. Normally, such a thing would’ve made her shiver with excitement, a fight to be had. This was not the place nor the time for that. “Enough, Lagunov,” she reprimanded, her voice authoritative and low. Immediately, his memory registered her in surprise. She eased her hands off of him as his sights moved past her and caught hold of Noora. “If you kill him, you will end here, too.” He answered like a child who was caught being naughty, knowingly doing something he ought not have. “Louveteau,” she mumbled when he brushed past her, escaping the vicinity before Noora could begin to chide him, too.

Taking the few steps towards Blitzen, she kneeled down the broken glass, to survey the damage done to her avian brother. He was in bad shape. It wasn’t a surprise to the Raven woman, especially considering his adversary. Her hand gripped at the meat hook, stuck into his chest, and seemingly without care to the man it was buried in, ripped it out of his chest to allow the wound to close and heal as it should. Standing again, her eyes scanned the crowd in front of her. A woman pushed through and her hand raised up in shock. Maeve beckoned her forward with swift gesture of her hand. She smelled like Asa, she was sure of it; like hospitals and surgery rooms. This one was no doctor, but surely she had experience healing her own kind. “Take him where he will be safe to heal, attend his wounds if you’d care to. When he awakes, send him back to the beasts he belongs to. I have much I need to discuss with him.” The woman lifted him and left with the Owl. Her hand lifted, raising the meat hook to inspect it for a moment. Maeve crossed through the crowd and swung the hook into the nearest wall, planting it into the wood tightly. Whether her wants to or not, he will talk.

Servants had begun to move forward to clean the glass up, but Noora still stood nearby. With little effort, the blonde moved through the crowd to meet her if only for a moment. “If you’d care to keep an eye on the queen, I’ll investigate Vilen’s current whereabouts and ask after his motives for this crime.” Her general, still radiating fury towards her comrade, nodded.

It was fortunate and troublesome the young werewolf had been in such a terrible fight. His and Blitzen’s scents seemed to have permeated the room since the horrendous scene. There were trails of where each scene seemed strongest, one leading the way the woman had left with the Owl, the other towards a more remote section of the ball room some distance away. The werebeast lieutenant carved a path through the crowd following it, and soon saw her target just a few feet away from her. However, he wasn’t alone and that made her take pause. The scent the other scent carried was unmistakable, vampire, but… off. The carrion beast wrinkled her nose. Cologne perhaps? Then the gentleman turned and instantly recognition crossed over her face.

Maeve was stunned. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she never would've believed she had witnessed the Leech King leaving Vilen's company. It left her with questions her conscious was demanding her to inquire after, but she was frozen in place. Cautiously, so as to not draw attention, her hand covered her mouth— a physical reminder to keep her silence. After a few moments to collect her thoughts, she moved to join Vilen. Even when she came up behind him, he hadn’t noticed her, lost to his own mind’s inner workings. What had been said that left him in such a state? She could stand her silence no longer.

Reaching out to grasp his shoulder delicately, the blonde eased his shoulder back to gain his attention. When he peered her way she offered him a guarded smile. ”Forgive the intrusion, but I came looking for you. I would ask if I had dreamed it, but I do believe I saw the one and only King of the Vampires leave your company a few moments ago. Did he have anything interesting to say?"

At first, she was met with adamant silence. It was of no surprise to her. If there was words exchanged, she wondered the seriousness of it.... but she had her doubts, too. They were not shaken off easily, nor were they forgotten. Instead, those doubts were placed elsewhere for further, more thorough thought for later. He answered her, regarded the conversation as important only to Kestral, but otherwise pointless. It didn’t satisfy her curiosity, but she nodded all the same. “I see, but that isn't what I wanted to ask about exactly," she said stepping in front of her person so she could read his expression readily. ”I wanted to know what the fight was about, how it started, and why exactly you nearly killed one of our kin. And don't say it's just because he's a pest. We all know that. I'd like specifics if you would please honor me with them.”

Her words were blunt and purposeful, intended to gain insight to the situation, but she could sense his reluctance. He answered her shortly. It appeared he wouldn't be giving her answers readily. Withdrawing her hand from his shoulder, Maeve responded with a curt nod. However, she wasn't going to easily drop the subject. "Vilen, I understand you wouldn't want to discuss it. Truly, I can. I've already mentioned that Blitzen is a rather... difficult individual.” Maeve stared down at her hands, hesitating as she collected her thoughts on how to attempt to persuade him to talk with her, but then it dawned on her. They shared a skill often forgotten, but rarely abandoned. "If you aren't open to saying it aloud, I'm prepared to open my mind to you. Telepathy amongst our kind can be a blessing in these situations."

Telepathy wasn't an ability she liked to use often. It was a sign of deep trust in whom she shared her thoughts. If she or the other wasn't careful, little bits of thought could slip through; unintentional sharing of information or memory preferred to remain personal could be devastating. She had done it before, and it became a learning experience.

"If not, that's fine. Either way, I'd rather know. I may have my biases against my fellow avian, but I'd like to have a specific reason why I'm supporting your case should it come up." Maeve smiled gently, hoping to assuage his concerns with a friendly attitude. "I promise you, anything you say to me, if you choose it, will remain between us. You have my word.”

It was easy to read him for the moment. Maeve wondered if he had purposely dropped his guard for her to see, or if he hadn't realized it. It wasn't that the wolf was stoic, but usually his body language was more reserved. He shifted and it caused her to snap back to attention as she noticed his deep focus in attempting to communicate with her through shared thought. He truly was younger than her. The harpy nodded as his voice came through clearly to explain his motives. It wasn't a terrible reason for him to have grown angry with the were-owl. Then he spoke again, which caused for her mouth to twitch. Maeve didn't mind he had chosen to vocalize again, but rather it was her own disappointment which flashed. She'd hoped for more from him, clarification. He spoke of the longing for death in the eyes of the suicidal, allegedly the look the Owl had before the fight had begun. ”I am familiar with this look.... usually those looks were in the eyes of the leeches, the ones that hunted any werebeast down for a fight to the death. Immortality doesn't suit those it does not come naturally to, and Blitzen is a rare exception. He's young, reckless, and his actions to cause such a response from you warrants investigation." She paused to fix the dress she wore, pushing the fabric down to lay flat against the petticoats beneath. It was a nervous habit. "It should go without saying you shouldn't have fallen for the trap. It's understandable why you did, and yet," she shrugged, "you would've done better to restrain yourself."

Maeve tucked loose hair behind her ear before looking over the crowd they were avoiding. Mercia was elsewhere, oddly acting the wallflower. Bernardo had just appeared and he was on his lonesome among Parisian vampires again. She frowned deeply.

"If you would oblige, would you kindly join me in meeting Bernardo? He's on his own, and these are not favorable circumstances for him." When he agreed and offered his arm, Maeve smiled before wrapping hers around his. "I confess, these are not favorable circumstances for any of us. We've always been better in numbers." They began to walk through the crowd, growing closer to the younger beast. When they were half way through, Maeve hesitated a step. "Do you recall an offer you made a couple of weeks ago? One where if I wanted a sparring partner, to call on you? Care to meet me tomorrow at the clearing?”

She hadn't been aware of his gaze until she met it, and blinked at him in surprise. The look he gave her was different, and not quite like the one which left her pondering for months. She quirked a brow at him, but did not inquire about it. When he responded to her offer, his tone was ever slightly gentler than when they had discussed the fight with Blitzen. It wasn't surpising. First and foremost, what she had noticed about Vilen since their fight in the woods, was that he was a gentleman. It was an odd characteristic she was not accustomed to amongst their kind, especially in their present circumstances. Everyone had a chip on their shoulder and cause for aggression. Tonight, she'd paid witness to one of his just as he'd witnessed her's in the forest.

His stare moved away from her when he left her to question her motives for sparring. "I suppose my reasons are the same at their core. However, I think it would also do you and I some good. We should try to interact more one on one outside of meeting at my tent to talk and drink." As if to confirm the words she spoke, she nodded. Squeezing his arm lightly, Maeve tightened her grasp around his arm in a rare display of deliberate affection.

This time, she stopped them before they reached Bernardo, wanting to disclose what she had to say to him alone. Dropping the guard on her mind, she sent the thought to him. "You desired for me to not be aggressive towards you, and this is my continued effort to fulfill my promise...." The whisper of her guilt of her actions and attitude leaked through with the thought. Picking up the pace again, her mind's defenses returned, they had nearly closed the remaining space before she addd, "That is, while still attempting to dismantle you and your ego." The raven woman smiled at the end of her statement, intending it to be a jest if not a challenge she hoped he would accept. His reaction, at first, made her think she had offended him, but when he understood the joke he smiled and argued the ego she should concern herself with was that of their mutual friend. She scoffed in response, as if nothing could be further from the truth, but she quietly agreed.

Meeting with the young, wolf, Maeve began the conversation on a mild note. She didn’t want to spook him in present company as it wouldn’t do well amongst the crowd for the scent of fear to linger. He looked handsome in the suit he’d created for himself, but nervous. The raven removed her arm from Vilen’s and stood beside the other, gentler beast and took his arm into her’s, patting it in an attempt to settle his nerves. “I would not worry myself when I have friends such us,” she told him with a wink. From there the conversation amongst the three took a few different turns, but the one she’d remember later were the sentimental ones. They spoke of memories shared between them, of the first time they spent in the tent in conversation.

Vilen managed to get her quite discontent when he poked fun at her inability to speak after several shots of whiskey that first night. She laughed, but there was an edge in her eye. “Sure, I tripped over my tongue a few times, but that was after you managed to fall out your chair! I couldn’t keep a straight face for the rest of the night because I’d keep giggling to myself about it.” From there the conversation grew from nostalgia to the three of them picking on each other, but it would not last. Their discussion and jests came to an abrupt end.

It happened in a blur.

The devil called for his sister, presenting the head of a face she knew well from her youth, a vampire who she never killed, an old rival. Words were passed amongst the two, a stage drama lived out for the guests to see. The Leech Queen went after Mercia, and Maeve would have jumped out of skin if it were not for the queen's supernatural calm and the rush of another. Kestral beat Ataraxia to the ground, pushing her out of the way. Maeve, irked, growled at the back of throat.

The storm caged within the room flashed lightening across the crowd; hell broke loose and was set upon the ball.

Maeve began to push Bernardo to the nearest exit and urged him out. “GO! Get to safety. For once, follow your instincts and run, fast and far. Vilen and I will be fine.” When he was gone, the blonde turned with a wicked smile, eyes set upon her queen. Mercia dropped two vampires instantly, and called to her beasts, inviting them to join. Maeve was irate, and this was perfect for quelling it. “About time,” she mumbled to herself before jumping into the fray.

[KuntKake]

Monsters. All of them monsters in a joyous, ravenous crowd. The Russian’s face grimaced with disgust as he watched the back of Kestrel’s head move his way towards Mercia. He tried to dispel all that the Leech King had said, and yet he felt inclined to give it attention. He watched them together, her stoic displeasure and his charming silver-tongued promises. All around them were the battlefield of Heaven and Hell. Demons in the court itching for blood, to brawl and to kill, and Kestrel was prodding her, willing her to oblige him in the dance. Mercia, he knew, would succumb to it. He could feel her vibrations from where he stood, yards away, always ready for a fight, but she wouldn’t be the one to start it. She was hungry, the Jackal inside tearing to get out and feel the moonlight. She was in her element, and Vilen could not see it any more clearly than the picture-esque scene before him, like it were a painting of The Divine Comedy.

He'd become so lost in the thoughts that it could have been anyone that touched him, anyone that could kill him. He let his guard down as he lost his sight to the images behind his eyes. So, though he was startled, he was relieved to have it be his Lieutenant that asked for his attention.
”Forgive the intrusion, but I came looking for you. I would ask if I had dreamed it, but I do believe I saw the one and only King of the Vampires leave your company a few moments ago. Did he have anything interesting to say?"
Maeve’s question left him cautious. There were far too many eyes here. He thought for a long moment on how to respond, looking away over the crowd of people before finally answering her softly, "Well, you know Kestrel. He's a character, to put it neatly." His eyes met Maeve's then, "He always has something interesting to say, whether we believe it to be, or not. It is to him."

She changed the subject, and for that he was thankful. But only insofar that it came back to another topic he wished not to discuss. A man of few words, tonight, it would seem. He truly did not want to be here...
He grunted and crossed his arms, looking away stubbornly, "He was asking for a death wish. I obliged him. And I'm not just giving you that. He meant it. He wanted it."
"Vilen, I understand you wouldn't want to discuss it. Truly, I can. I've already mentioned that Blitzen is a rather... difficult individual.”
Vilen's lips pursed out of frustration. Not at Maeve, of course, but rather the whole damn night, the situations, the world.
Her suggestion of telepathy was interesting, as it wasn't a skill he often used. In fact, the risk with it could mean anything he said could be gathered by any other more skilled than himself, looking to eavesdrop. Then again, what was he really going to say?

He shifted slightly and sighed, his jaw tense and his brow heavy but level as he attempted the skill, "He disrespected my family, my loss." he paused, looking then to the floor for a moment, "And our Queen."
He cleared his throat to speak clearly again, "As I'm sure you know, the look one has when they are longing to be put to rest… He had it about him. His actions were influenced by his desire to meet the Devil. And I obliged him with my fury, with no regrets."

”I am familiar with this look.... usually those looks were in the eyes of the leeches, the ones that hunted any werebeast down for a fight to the death. Immortality doesn't suit those it does not come naturally to, and Blitzen is a rare exception. He's young, reckless, and his actions to cause such a response from you warrants investigation. It should go without saying you shouldn't have fallen for the trap. It's understandable why you did, and yet," she shrugged, "you would've done better to restrain yourself."
He found it difficult to meet her gaze, seeing a slight disappointment in their depths. But, in his heart, he knew he had made the right choice, the just choice for his sister and his family. Was Maeve's judgement because she believed that his actions for their Queen was futile? Was she able to see that Mercia's ideals were worth upholding when their own were weak?

"If you would oblige, would you kindly join me in meeting Bernardo? He's on his own, and these are not favorable circumstances for him."
He swallowed down his thoughts, and nodded at her request, following her eyes to find his pupil, the charming, lanky tailor, alone and squeamish. A part of his person looked to be simply in the right atmosphere, but knowing that every single being amongst them was of a wicked supernatural evil... he understood his Lieutenant's hesitance to leave the man alone.
Vilen understood and knew just how well and how long Bernardo would last on his own, and it wouldn't be long enough.

He shifted so Maeve could take his arm as they moved fluidly between the bodies, and looked down to her. She looked rather different all done up in this strange and flirtatious get-up. Well, not too out of the ordinary. The harpy did always have a more promiscuous look to her wardrobe. But this was a little different than her usual garb. She was presenting herself purposefully as such, and it was attractive.
Her pace slowed as she pondered, and asked aloud, "Do you recall an offer you made a couple of weeks ago? One where if I wanted a sparring partner, to call on you? Care to meet me tomorrow at the clearing?”
Vilen was slightly surprised, raising a brow, but he softened just a little, "I would like that. Very much. I know that I could use the release. What's your excuse?" he snickered and looked away.
"I suppose my reasons are the same at their core. However, I think it would also do you and I some good. We should try to interact more one on one outside of meeting at my tent to talk and drink."

He did have to agree with her. Their interactions did tend to always circle around her tent with talking and drinking. He didn't want that to be all they had. There were others that were good for those sorts of things, but his Lieutenant shouldn't be one of them. As she tightened her grip around his arm, Vilen nodded in agreement.
She turned to pause and he raised to her a curious brow as her voice permeated his mind. Her words brought about a small sense of guilt to his presence. He had asked that of her. Was he doing his best to return the favour by being transparent with her? What was his to keep? It seemed they shared a similar epiphany and they locked up internally to return to their approach of the tailor wallflower.

She smiled, and Vilen caught it from the corner of his eye, causing him to meet her gaze as she added an ending note on their conversation. His lips puckered up defensively, but turned up at the corners as he scoffed, "If there is one ego you should be worried about, it is that of the other company you keep." he flicked his eyes towards Bernardo, though he knew only part of the struggle his pupil was going through.

They met Bernardo’s side and he watched as the man began to ease within Maeve’s presence. Vilen did not feel that Bernardo needed to necessarily be nervous, but airing on the side of caution was perhaps a better state of mind, in their current circumstances. The Russian could admit to knowing that the tailor would not have eased so well in his company alone, and that he was grateful for Maeve to be by his side as well.
The trio spent some time speaking of lighter things, good memories and conversations that made their hearts warmer. If only for a little while, they could almost forget where they were, and the war at hand.

But that all came to a sharp end when Kestrel’s booming voice shattered the facade and the world seemed to stand still.
Within his hand was the dangling head of the Black Widow, and Vilen’s features hardened. So, there was much more to this game afterall. His eyes flicked to Ataraxia and then searched for Noora. Had this been accounted for in their plans? The twins boasted to one another, neither accepting the blame and instead throwing insults. Vilen listened intently, guards up and hand on the hilt of the blade at his hip.
His eyes followed Ataraxia’s wires, spooling out fast and directly towards their target, Mercia. The Midnight Jackal just stood, her eyes wide and alight, but her mouth gnawing eagerly on the bone of a bird, chewing the meat slowly as she watched. Vilen knew the wires wouldn’t harm her, reach her. He knew Mercia was just waiting for the right moment to strike, but as Kestrel took his sister to the floor, and the room began to erupt, Vilen could not move his eyes from her as she remained in place, watching with a sensuality in her bosom. She lived for this, thrilled the carnage and bloodshed. He watched, defeated as she moved blindingly swift into action, destroying two vampires in nearly a blink. He hadn’t even noticed Maeve send Bernardo out and getting herself into the thick of it too.

All he could feel was a nauseating understanding that Kestrel Paradin… was right.

[Hamletmaschine]

How droll. This party was as falsely aristocratic as Kestrel’s adoration for red wine. Upon entering, she let Mercia make her way through the ballroom as she pleased, following behind with Maeve as her cohorts and aids. Both of the women knew that Mercia did not need their assistance, but more that she needed them to help wean off the numbers if they attacked, which Noora knew in due time that they would.

The mansion was devastating. Once, in it’s prime, the building would have been a staple of luxury with marble floors, gilded walls and ceilings, crystal chandeliers and impressive domed skylights. But, now that it had fallen to the vampires, it became a chilling reminder of bad decisions and even worse hypocrisy.
The Paris she once knew and adored had become so old and unforgiven.

Noora had hoped to see Ataraxia, but was floored by the sheer number of vampires that were in attendance. She was unable to see or feel her presence through all the bodies. No matter. Plans were plans, and at some point this night was going to get ugly, and Kestrel would fall.

Just then, splinters of glass fell from above, and then shards as they shattered to the floor, impaling some who failed to make room for the body of Blitzen Bell, who came crashing down, impaled on a meathook. Well, this was not how she had planned to start the evening. Her eyes narrowed and jaw tensed. This was not the place for petty squabbles.
Vilen was the next one to follow, but by his ability to gracefully land, she knew he had been the culprit of this intrusion, and likely in some sort of display of disapproval of the whole evening. He shouldn’t have come at all.

Mercia looked back to her, questioning her judgement, and Noora felt the back of her neck grow hot. It was good that her lieutenant offered to clear the scene of this fracas, because she had not the control to deal with Vilen without more blood being spilt. She nodded to Maeve to take care of the situation, and moved swiftly out of sight.
This whole war had turned into a ridiculous sideshow. Between carnivals and truces, what should have been a conquest for vengeance had turned upside down and inside out. Mercia could not see it past her tunnel vision for Kestrel’s head, but Noora could, and she had had enough. This truce needed to end. Now.

With still no sign of Ataraxia, Noora pursued into her Plan B.


When the nights were calm in the city she would delve down into the city’s underground, her old home and workshop. Paris held a whole city below the surface, catacombs and waterways that housed what remained of her people. Beasts of all kinds, forced into the sewers to survive against the vampires that overtook the French capital. There, she re-lived her youth, and found many of her old co-workers and friends… and many more long dead.
The numbers that remained shattered her heart, perhaps only a few hundred, their desperation and situation was deplorable. But, they were alive, and thriving even in the filth of the underbelly. They had enough of a population to make a threat, and with the right leader, they could stand a chance… Noora gladly took it upon herself to see that her people would rise again.

Pleased that they had maintained the workshops, the beasts worked and developed her patients, making larger and better weapons. All of them were skilled in survival, and trained in combat. With little time to spare, she had them prepare for Kestrel’s ball, and told them to wait until her return.


Now was the hour, and the Finnish General slipped out from the eyes of the demons and down into the passages below. She trusted Mercia to play nice, and only hoped Kestrel would as well…

The building had a set of stone stairs that led down into the lower kitchen and wine cellar. There it backed onto the Siene where boats would dock in and drop off food and supplies from the pier.
While the city of the damned attended the Leech King’s ball, the beasts came in by boats into the cellar below to meet her there. She met them there in their approach, silent with vibrating energy, waiting to exact their long-awaited revenge. She spoke to them in hushed French, keeping one ear open to the party above, and helped the men and women from the boats with their weapons.

They were nearly ready to ascend when the echo of Kestrel’s call echoed down the stairs. Noora’s head snapped around to listen, and felt someone shove a crossbow into her hand. Inspired, she kept them quiet, and led them two stairs at a time up to the second floor landing. It was easy to slip by unnoticed as the whole estate focused on Kestrel’s demanding presence. All attentions were on the Leech King and The Red Death, accusations flying between the siblings.
Far below, she saw Mercia watching with coiled interest, and from across the room, Vilen and Maeve also on the edge. Neither would be able to reach Mercia in time of an attack, so she paused to direct her attention to the vampires as they spit and clawed like wildcats.
Ataraxia, Noora knew, would despise her for her lack of support, for her silence when she was called out. But who was Noora to defend the Red Death so openly? It was clear to her that Kestrel was setting her up for a fall, but this was war, afterall.

The Queen took a stab at Mercia with her wires. The General watched, fist curling tighter around the trigger of the crossbow but was surprised to see Kestrel openly protect the Jackal. Gasps and whispers rippled through the ranks, and she couldn’t help hide a smirk. That was the sort of action they needed to bring him down and he walked right into it!
But the twins were evenly matched in their scrapping, so the Queen rallied the support. Noora looked over her shoulder to the beasts behind her… brothers and sisters in arms and by blood. Her people for so many years. They deserved so much better…
Mercia’s howl ruptured a bubble of bloodlust in her gut, awakening the wolf within her, and her eyes flashed red as she grinned. Revenge would be had, and the city would be theirs again! Her people would rebuild, their lives meaningful again, and someday the sun would shine down it’s golden warmth upon their skin and say, ‘The pain was worth it.’!
Jumping up on the banister, she raised her weapon to the air and bellowed a chilling howl of her own, which in turn was reciprocated in kind by the others. A powerful chorus of cries that had the vampires slamming their palms into their ears with agony. She was alive again, power and energy surging through her brain with adrenaline straight to her heart.
Inhaling deeply, she brought her crossbow up and focused Kestrel in her sights as she sneered,

“TRAITOR!”

The beasts behind her advanced, and the battle begun.

[Hamletmaschine]

XXXX

How did he get himself into such tragic measures? No-- The question should be Why. Jack knew well how it was that he came to be in such a disastrous state, he chose to be there by his own will. Why he did it was also clear but at the same time a common misconception. He did it because he thought it was the right thing to do, or perhaps the only thing to do… the truth always was that he was an absolute fool that never looked at the alternatives, or listened to reason. Was that not how him and Bernardo couldn’t seem to fit?

He just couldn’t let someone else be in control of his fate, he could not give up the reins and let fate decide. Jack Fletcher holds control of life or death itself to throw around at his will. He grimaced and looked back at Bernardo’s disapproval and weariness. If he didn’t give it a chance, how would he know that this isn’t what could save his soul, could repent his sins and save them from damnation?

Ataraxia looked to him to complete their goals, and so Jack moved as instructed pursuing introductions like any other aristocrat: with gossip. From person to group, to threesome to couple, Jack insinuated false truths about the Leech King.

“He lives for the Jackal. Have you never noticed how he holds her above our own lives?”

“Kestrel didn’t die for us, he died because of his weaknesses. He was too focused on the Jackal he let his guard down. Ataraxia is Queen.”

“I shared the mansion with him in London. I watched him kill his mistress to protect the Jackal. He cares for nothing but her. He’s in love with her!”

“I heard he killed the owner of this estate just so he could throw the party. How obnoxious!”

And so on, and so forth did he weave webs and traps as he circled the room, shoved from this group of supporters to the next of doubters. He laid the seeds of doubt into some and made angry others. No matter the result, the room would become a buzz with theories and bets on how the night would turn out.

Every so often he would look or move back towards Bernardo’s position, noting his discomfort. And soon, others, Maeve and that tall stranger he did not know, joined him. Jack felt the pangs of jealousy twisting his stomach into knots as he caught glimpses. He watched how Bernardo relaxed, seemed to come back to life, and even on occasion the vampire would see a hint of the smile that he adored. He didn’t belong here…

Jack felt like retching.

Taking refuge against the detailed wallpaper of the wall, he looked up to find he was exactly opposite Bernardo. Across all the room, through the bodies and under the brilliant lights, Bernardo was across the ocean on the other shore. Jack’s shoulders hunched forward as he wrapped his arms around himself, breathing through his illness. A cough threatened to take hold of him but he pushed it down as the tailor caught his eyes, holding his gaze like he was forcing the vampire to watch. To see that he was alright without him, that he never needed him. That his pitiful existent and duties were beneath his brilliance. Jack was torn under himself, under believing he was worthless or suppressing the urge to call his bluff. A cool sweat kissed his brows, and he shuddered, finally closing his eyes in defeat. How could he hold a flame to the tailor when he was, too, as imperfect as Jack? Did he not have some blame to take in this fight? Was Jack not worth something?

Before his thoughts could spiral down into anger, a vicious roar echoed from the center of the room, and the party hushed like candles snuffed in the wind.

“ATARAXIA!”

Jack shifted his gaze to his Queen, whom looked at Kestrel with defiance. As the accusations began to fly the plans Ataraxia had set into motion began to unravel rapidly around them. For support she searched, but Jack looked away, finding Bernardo once again. The beast regarded him with a tense jaw, waiting for his decision…
Did Jack forsake his lover, his future, and side with an unhinged Queen? Or should he disavowed his loyalty to Ataraxia, and disclosed immunity from harm for himself and the tailor? They were so close to London. Oh, if only they could just jump the water and be free! The Red Death promised him safe haven for them to live together without fear! But who was to say they would even survive a fortnight upon their return… what if there was no London left to go back to?
If he followed Bernardo, their path was uncertain, broken and with no forgiveness. The beast saw to that.
If he chose Ataraxia, he chanced death, but bought time for Bernardo to survive...
The blond’s hand hovered over the pistol on his hip and begged, without speaking, for forgiveness.

Sibling vampires fought as the crowd dispersed to give them room. Maeve pushed the tailor back but he was defiant at first, eyes never leaving Jack’s as he stared his decision down. Jack pulled the pistol from his holster and checked the rounds nervously. The Queen gave them permission to fight, and Jack cringed. He looked across the room. Bernardo was already gone.

Jack finally caved, dry-heaving against the anxiety in his chest. Coughing, gasping for breath, he looked up weakly and shot the gun once, twice. And when he caught his breath, he pushed through the tears in his eyes and screamed till his throat hurt. He was broken. The first vampire he could catch he latched onto, sinking his fangs into their neck and pulling their putrid blood into his gullet. He needed it to blind him, to make him fight, to feel alive. As it slithered down his throat, he gagged but pulled the trigger again and again with every pull. The vampire beneath his hold struggled until Jack had enough and shot the bugger in the head. He moved on to the next and repeated, this one a little better in taste, but he wasn’t sated, wasn’t numb yet. He wanted to be sedated, to forget.

He’d never forgive himself for the deeds he’d do this night.

Finishing the next one, he turned, red-glazed eyes looking up to the lights with a satisfied sigh. His body hummed, fuzzy, his ears swimming in the chaos of howls and cries. He staggered back as a stray bullet hit his shoulder and he laughed, intoxicated. It was little wonder why they fought like this. It was like they didn’t even exist. It meant nothing at all, and they were all gods in the end.

Jack blinked slowly and licked the blood that dripped from his lips. With a hand on the wall, he steadied himself. The blood began to settle and the dizziness would subside as the bloodlust kicked in. He brought his pistol up and aimed at the werebeast General, up high on the second level, then down to the raven as she beheaded another of his kind like they were just chickens in a coope. Then a thought hit him, and he snickered, aiming at Kestrel. Wouldn’t that be grand? But he was too heated with Ataraxia. Where was the Jackal?

Who should he take next?


XXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[RemarkablyRenee]

The house that Chen, Walter, and Arthur shared lay silent and still. The small weak lantern of light that hung in the workshop was nowhere near strong enough to battle the dark of the night. The mechanism clicked and then whirred, the sound of its smooth workings music to Arthur’s ears. They had been working on fine tuning the new mechanical arm for days with no rest, and despite their mixture of mechanics and flesh, they were beginning to tire. Arthur flicked one of the switches on the panel the arm was wired to, and a single, sharp needle-like blade, about three inches long, flashed out and in. It was barely noticeable. Good. A different switch was flicked, and hooked blades shot out from the forearm of the arm, glistening with condensation from the puff of steam that accompanied them. Arthur frowned, and fiddled with the gauges, their blue eyes dilated in the low light.

It wasn’t perfect, Arthur acknowledged, but it would do for now. Anything was better than the monstrosity they’d attached to this body. As if feeling its owner’s disgust, the vile clunky apparatus let out a belching sob of steam. Arthur clicked their tongue in disgust as it dripped filthy water and pus onto the floor. It was almost time for a visit to Rosemary again. But not quite yet.

They rose, stretching with their hands reaching up and back. This small effort caused their mechanical heart to whirr, faster than it should. Arthur’s lungs felt constricted, and they felt themselves falling to the side as their vision suddenly reduced to a pinprick in front of their eyes. It only lasted a moment, but Arthur realized that they must have spent more time in the workshop than they’d thought. The symptoms were progressing too quickly.

All at once, the absolute suffocating silence of the house seemed too much for Arthur to bear. It surrounded them like a overly-warm blanket, and they shuddered. Yes, to Rosemary, and quickly. But first… Arthur limped to the small cot they kept in the corner of their workshop, and collapsed, falling into a restless sleep. But in dreams, as in waking, memories continued their tortuous play before the Clockmaker’s eyes.



“Momma, Momma!” Pietro’s calls rang out as he ran up the steps to Maggie’s workshop. He burst into the small shed, bringing a burst of treacherous springtime air with him. Maggie clicked her tongue, and looked up from the umbrella she had been working on, lifting her goggles out of the way. Pietro looked almost angelic, silhouetted by the streetlamp's light in the doorway of the dilapidated shed. His blond curls, so unlike her own black riot of hair, seemed to glow, and Maggie squinted to see his face clearly. It didn’t help, and she sighed, pushing back from her desk.

“Come in, come in,” she said, her voice a mixture of exasperation and love. “And make sure to close that door behind you. I’m almost done.”

Pietro obeyed, carefully shutting the door he had treated so carelessly a moment earlier. He rubbed guiltily at the mark he had added to the handle before going to sit. Maggie saw, as she always did, and pretended not to notice. Pietro was a bright, happy child despite their dirty and desperate circumstances, and she would have nothing harm his optimism.

Pietro tapped the arm of his chair twice, and a small spider automaton uncurled itself from the table beside him. It tick-tick-ticked its way to his side, and Pietro grinned as it climbed up his arm and began to create a wire web between his two hands. A thin stream of light from the dirty windows fell on the web, and made it gleam. Maggie spent a moment more watching them play, a sad smile on her face, before she lowered her goggles once again and went back to work. It seemed like only moments to Maggie, but it must have been longer, because when she finally finished the umbrella, there was no trace of sun remaining in the sky.

Pietro was asleep in his chair, the spider’s wire hanging loose between his hands. His face, normally smiling and laughing, showed the strain he was under now that he could no longer act like her strong little boy. His cheeks were thinner than before, and his golden skin was duller. Maggie put away the umbrella and picked him up, easily handling his weight with her vampire-strength and not bother to make a play at human frailty. He knew what she was, but Maggie wouldn’t have used her strength if he had been awake. These were dangerous times, and you couldn’t afford to be careless. Not when everyone was looking for blood.

Maggie mounted the steps to their home, Pietro’s lolling head against her breast. At ten years old, she mused, she supposed she shouldn’t treat him like such a child. But oh, it was so hard not to cherish what time they had. She placed him in his small bed gently, smoothing the damp curls back from his face and placing a kiss on his forehead. He didn’t move a muscle as she left him in the house, locked the doors, and returned to her workshop.

She opened the drawer to her work bench- it hissed open smoothly after she entered the combination. A small set of lady’s gloves lay within- decorated with clockwork to dazzle. But this clockwork had another function. She pulled the gloves on, flexing her hand like a cat’s and causing razor-sharp hooks to emerge from the tips of her fingers.

She repeated the motion several times, watching closely for catches or hesitations in the process. Ah—there.
A small speck of dried blood stained the blade. She licked it off carefully, feeling the sharp edge against the delicate tip of her tongue. Waste not want not.

When she was satisfied there were no problems, she picked up the umbrella and put it over her shoulder as she set out at a jaunty pace. She still had to deliver this to Madam Verde—she needed the money for the coming week’s food. And since she was going out anyway, she reasoned, she may as well pick up dinner.

Maggie was famished.



Arthur lay still, staring at the ceiling. Pietro’s face lingered in their mind. Instead of whole and happy as they remembered him though, Arthur’s mind showed a different Pietro- one with rotting skin and bulging eyes and a tongue that protruded obscenely and dripped with the juices produced by death. Arthur cursed, sitting upright and waving their hands in front of them as if that could dispel the image. As they sat there, breathing heavily, the memories slowly faded back into their subconscious.
“I’m sure they’ll return soon enough,” Arthur muttered to themselves. “Pietro never could leave us alone for long.”

They sat in the silence and darkness for only a moment longer before rising to get their things. There would be time enough for memories and regrets. When Arthur had risen as a Mephisto, they had been horrified, but as time had passed they realized that this was for the best. This way, their husband’s body need not become food for things that crawl in the ground. They could live on forever, together.
The mechanical arm attached to Arthur’s shoulder hissed and spit steam at them. Well, Arthur amended, a few… alterations were necessary. And this body required much upkeep. Thank the gods Rosemary had come to town. Upkeep had been… hard without the Apothecary nearby.
Arthur grabbed a trenchcoat to hide the hideous mechanical monstrosity, threw on an old hat, and made their way out the door and down the street without a second thought. Rosemary’s caravan awaited, and Arthur had waited long enough.


The caravan was hidden away, deep in the forest. Too close to the rival camps for Arthur’s taste, but Rosemary did like a bit of... thrill. And she was dangerous enough that Arthur pitied the vampire or beast that dared disturb her. After slogging through far too much forest for Arthur’s taste, the caravan finally came into view. Sitting in the middle of a small clearing was the brightly colored wagon and a large tent beside it. The two mechanical horses she favored were still hitched to the caravan. As Arthur approached, they noticed that the horses were looking a bit worse for wear.
They looked closer at the beasts. Was that a patch job? Sighing, Arthur came nearer for a better look. Oh yes, definitely a patch job. Not a terrible one they supposed, but still a hastily done fix. Temporary at best. Arthur felt their hands itch to take a closer look, but stepped away instead. No, definitely not a good idea to touch without permission. If Rose asked, then fine. Arthur instead walked to the tent’s opening, feeling oddly like they should knock before going in.

“Rosemary," Arthur started, only to stop when she didn't bother to turn around.

Rosemary continued tying the knot on the flowers and herbs she’d collected earlier in the day to dry, letting Arthur stand there, feeling like a fool. After a few more moments, she lifted a hand.
“Come.” she replied.

Arthur stepped into the tent, eyeing the bundles of herbs and items hanging from the ceiling. They were varied, and the overall effect was rather like stepping into a magpie’s nest. They were just about to speak when suddenly another wave of dizziness hit, and Arthur listed to the side like a dying ship. They fell into a table, sending flowers tumbling to the floor and a few pots crashing down with them. They gasped for breath, their heart suddenly racing faster than before. Their throat closed up, and just for a moment, Arthur thought they would truly die this time. The thought was tempting, that much was certain, but there was much to do, and many to be dealt with before that could happen. After another moment, Arthur’s throat opened again, and they took in air so quickly it sounded like a scream.

Raising a curious brow, the apothecary did, this time, look back over her shoulder as the Mephisto keeled over, taking much of her work and set-up with them. She pursed her large, dark lips and hummed with a sigh through her nose. She moved about with purpose, letting Arthur come to their own senses naturally and undisturbed, while gathering up the things she needed. Her long black skirts flowed about, her hair down long and curled in frizzy, thick-bodied ringlets against her velvety mocha skin. Delicate, young hands moved wildly like she were playing a violin, picking the tips off herb bunches, singeing rosewood, dabbing at water, making her way about the tent with a gentle humming…

They didn’t call her Mother Mary for nothing.

An occasional glance passed towards Arthur until finally they returned to their senses. “Get up,” she muttered, demanding their presence over at the worktable where she prepared their desperately needed ‘lifeblood’. She noted the lack of reaction in Arthur's still-prone body and rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she moved over to yank them up by the bicep and hurl them into the waiting chair. “You’re really quite deplorable.”

Arthur lifted their head, their mouth contorting into a grimace as they felt their heart racing. Their eyes were wide, whites showing all around, and Arthur’s head kept flopping to the side oddly. “The new automata,” they started wearily “are almost ready. Do you think the b*****d will be pleased with this? Two weeks straight of working. Had to keep going of course, can’t stop progress and all that. Or is it don't get in the way of progress?” Arthur waved a hand that flopped about like a dead fish. They glared at it, annoyed at their lack of control "Doesn't really matter."

They stared at Rosemary, busy preparing some herbs and readying a needle.
“I really waited too long, didn’t I?” Arthur asked softly. They knew they had. They could feel the poison seeping into their blood, into Maggie’s blood, into Arthur’s blood, and it was eating away at their body like maggots.
Arthur sighed, looking at the skin on their good arm, and seeing the greenish tinge to it. It was ridiculous. They knew they should have mailed the Apothecary weeks ago, letting her know to prepare the infusion. But they hadn't thought it'd happen so swiftly....
“You don't happen to have a batch of the infusion ready do you?”

Rosemary looked up, raising one brow. From the corner she pulled out a small steam powered pump and shook her head, “Arthur, Arthur.”
Taking their hand, she looked over the palm, prodding the skin to bring the blood up to the surface, surveying the colour and lines beneath. Then she flicked her chin up and examined their eyes with her own, dark honey orbs looking curiously into the voids as she muttered, “That depends on the answer you were seeking. You waited too long, or not long enough.”
She proceeded to fill the bag, “Have you such little faith? Lucky for you I still had enough left over from the last time, but this level of infection requires a higher dosage to reverse the effects of what you’ve done to yourself.”

Arthur laughed. Of course she had some ready. Sometimes Rosemary's ability to think ahead was terrifying. She always seemed to have whatever was needed ready.

When the bag was filled, she threaded the line and began prepping her patient for intake: cleaning the wrist, preparing the bandage, “Of all the things you create, one would think you’d make a timer for yourself.”

"Oh,” Arthur murmured with delight, watching the needle slip into their veins. “That rather takes the fun out of it don’t you think?”

The race against time, that rush of terror when they pushed things a bit too far or didn't test something thoroughly--that made them feel alive. A timer would simply take that rush away, and after all, Arthur mused. Happiness was truly in the little things.
Almost as soon as the needle went in, Arthur felt a cool rush, and they shivered.
Already the sickly green tint was receding. Rosemary’s work truly was miraculous; almost as ingenious as their own work. It was ironic that after leading a life so full of loneliness that they had finally found someone with a mind like their own. And the owner of that mind was as conniving as Old Nick himself.

Arthur watched Rosemary as she flowed around her tent, straightening things as she went. As she picked up a crushed bundle of flowers, a darkly vicious look crossed her ebony features before they smoothed out again. Arthur flattened their lips in a small grimace. Oh they were definitely going to be fixing those horses for this. And there would be absolutely no money taken for it either, or one day Arthur may wake up with some rather nasty side effects from the transfusion they so desperately needed to live.

Rosemary gave Arthur a look when she noticed their gaze, one that very clearly stated that Arthr should stay in their place and continued on about her business; a gentle humming again coming from her throat.
She had things on her mind, questions to be answered, things to do. Tending to Arthur’s needs hadn’t been one of them, but since they were here… “Why am I not surprised to find you avoiding the larger plans at hand? Should you not be assisting at the party?”

Arthur blinked slowly, the euphoric rush from the drug not seeming such a stimulant any more. “Oh, did that happen already,” they asked innocently. “I was completely lost in my work. Must have forgotten it completely.”
Arthur, of course, had done nothing of the sort. They despised parties, and they despised Kestrel and his slavering followers. They much preferred Ataraxia’s approach to things. Simple, vicious, and honest.
“I’m not so sure our illustrious leader would have wanted me there anyway,” Arthur said dismissively, dropping the poor attempt at innocence, poking at where the needle was inserted. “After all, he can’t really count on me to behave, can he? I’ve made no bones about what my goal is. I want to find the b*****d that killed my Pietro, and I want to hurt him.”
Arthur grinned viciously, their cheeks hurting as they poked the needle a little harder.
“Badly.”

Rose sighed in contempt, knowing that this was a true statement. Henry did not trust Arthur one bit, seeing as they shared neither the same visions nor their purpose. Moving back to observe Arthur’s condition, she tilted her head, a little more kind, “As much as Chen wants to exact revenge on Kestrel and all their kind. Yes, I understand.” she looked at the bag, dripping away and nodded, “But remember, he gave you the life you live. In that, you must owe him something in return. Play fair, build him pretty weapons for all his brainless Steins, and you will see the revenge you seek in good due time.”

Far away she could feel a dangerous anger, a rolling and dark storm in her core and knew before the words reached their minds that their King was very, very angry indeed. Something had gone awry. With Henry’s demanding voice in her head, she began to swiftly pack her doctor’s bag. “You should stay here until this blows over. Sit until the bag is empty. I’ll be back soon.”

Arthur waved at Rosemary as she quickly left the tent. They felt themself slowly growing weaker as the effects of the infusion slowly overpowered their body. The oblivion was welcome but... they couldn't help but wish they'd be there to see their great mechanical King blow a gasket.

[Hamletmaschine]

Though here at journey's end I lie

In darkness buried deep,

Beyond all towers strong and high,

Beyond all mountains steep,

Above all shadows rides the Sun

And Stars for ever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

Nor bid the Stars farewell.

[Phoelidae]

When the Paradin twins were born, they were nigh indistinguishable, save for the fact that while the girl’s eyes were both purple, the little boy had one purple, and one sapphire blue. Devil marked, they said. Be careful of that one. Then, when the twins grew older, both favored their left hand. Another mark of demons on them both, people said. Never to the parents’ faces, of course - the Paradins were wealthy and influential, a rare instance of old money that had managed to change with the times and make new money. But behind their backs, high society whispered about the devil-touched twins.

Maybe Kestrel really had been touched by a devil before his birth, fated for the bloody and evil things that became his world. Maybe they had both been cursed. It was amusing now, to think of how right the silly chittering gossips had proved to be.

But for all the centuries that had passed, it was as easy as it had ever been to herd his sister and get a rise from her. She was too straightforward, too guileless, to foresee even the slightest turn of the path before her. Oh she had her skills to be sure (he assumed), but she should never have presumed to outfox him at his favorite game of deceit.

Congealed blood was creeping down his wrist from the head, staining his splendid coat, but he didn’t care. The king was watching his sister crack and come apart at the seams, right before his eyes. She was always too rigid. She needed to be more flexible to survive in this mad world, but he hadn’t quite managed to push her over the edge until now. He watched revelation dawn and panic rise, watched the fury blossom into blind rage as she realized she was trapped, her back against the wall. He imagined it was something of the same expression he had worn, when he realized she was about to remove his head.

Noise rose through the crowd, anxiety singing through the air, but he only watched her, waiting, wondering, his lips curled into a dangerous, curious smirk. Finally, she answered, spitting words and accusations and thrusting her finger toward him like it would do anything to condemn a king who had conquered death itself. Kestrel’s smirk became a full-fledged wolf-grin, reveling in her anger - and then she moved.

For an instant, he saw the world in freeze-frame, the wide-eyed hunger of the spectators, the flowing candles and chandeliers, and his sister, with her body twisted, her wires streaming from her fingertips as she extended herself in a headlong lunge. Toward Mercia.

The world moved again, and he along with it, before he could think about whether or not the Jackal needed his protection. In truth, it didn’t matter. He was compelled, driven, dragged by something at his core to defend her, to protect her, whether she needed it or not. It was his duty, his destiny, his purpose, to make sure that she was safe, even if the danger was small to begin with. The Midnight Jackal was his to protect, his to fight for, his to die for.

Of course, none of that crossed his mind in a conscious way, even if it was ringing in his soul like a cathedral bell. Consciously, all he thought was that he was going to give Ataraxia what she deserved, once and for all.

Their fight moved too fast for mortal eyes to see, vicious blows traded back and forth. He had fought his twin often enough now that he had realized she was resistant to pain, so he had to target his blows to crippling ones, that would inhibit her actual ability to move. When he caught her wires on his arm he snarled in pain, and wished that he was resistant to it too. He hated this weapon of hers - it was petty, dishonorable, and difficult to fight. But it left her exposed if her opponent was willing to take the pain. He kicked her kneecap hard enough to hear a crunch, watched surprise flare across her face, and started prying wires from the mangled mess of his forearm while she staggered to the floor.

Then, like the coward that she was, she called for backup.

What had been a stage became a riot, devoid of rhyme or reason. Vampire turned on vampire as their lack of cohesion became clear for everyone to see. Metal rang and blood ran, and everywhere the leeches joined in battle. At the heart of it all were the twin monarchs, a battle none dared to interfere with. Kestrel had had it with his precious sister. He was going to kill her tonight and be done with it, and nothing could distract him from that goal.

He only looked up when he heard that howl, the sound that called to him in a way it called to no other beast. His dark head turned and he saw her, Mercy, beautiful and sensual and spattered in blood, as she ripped the still-ticking heart from one of his vampires. For a split second their eyes met, his glittering cat-eye green and her’s blazing blood red, and there were no words to be exchanged, only an absolute understanding of one soul by another.

A moment later she was swallowed again by the crowd, which swelled still further as the beasts joined the fray, several transforming into monstrous animals to join the combat. A shout from above caught the king’s attention, and he lifted his head to see the Beast Queen’s general taking aim at his heart. Kestrel paused, focusing on her long enough to make a point, She let fly with her crossbow, and like water the Leech King slipped out of the way, catching the bolt middair and meeting the b***h’s eyes with a smile as he snapped it in half with one fist. His smile promised her an agonizing death. But a hiss in his ear warned him of an interruption, and he ducked, narrowly avoiding his sister’s wires. Before she could coil them back in, he closed with her, pressing inside her guard with dagger in hand, sweeping up, looking to sever her hand. She jerked back just in time, the blade catching only fabric and surface flesh.

Ataraxia staggered backward as the King advanced, her broken knee refusing to support her full weight and forcing her to limp and adjust. Kestrel smiled. “I am going to kill you, sister. You are going to die here tonight for daring to challenge me as you have. You should never have been made vampire. You should have stayed in the orphanage with me, like a dutiful sister would have.”

That pricked her noble pride, as he thought it would, and she lunged forward. His dagger sank deep into her left lung, missing her heart, but she didn’t even flinch. “Do not speak to me of duty, Kestrel,” she hissed, drawing the blade from her chest as though she felt nothing at all. In close, she brought her crippled knee up and slammed it into his stomach, then brought the hilt of the blade down on a pressure point in his shoulder, doubling him over. He could feel her raising the blade over the back of his neck, preparing to sever his spinal cord, and was calculating the best way to dodge the move when he heard a sick wet crunch and the dagger clatter to the floor. He looked up to see Ataraxia staring at a steak knife impaling her left wrist, and new in the pit of his stomach who had thrown the blade from the anonymity of the crowd.

Grinning, he slammed into the Red Death’s legs, dragging her to the ground and sweeping around to kick her hard in the side of the head.

[Phoelidae]

She had visited the cathedral again, before she came to Kestrel’s ball. She had wanted to be sated, and at her full power, and there was something somehow more civilized about the exchange of coin than wanton slaughter of some lost human in the streets. Besides, she felt no need to kill needlessly when there was already to be so much blood shed this night.

The girl, the same blond from before, came to her eagerly, pupils dilated and breathing quick. The side of her neck was still healing from the savagery of their last meeting, but the human seemed to have no worry for that, nor reluctance about another encounter. Ataraxia had not expected that. Nihilo had taught Ataraxia that humans could develop an addiction to one of the metals alloys in vampire fangs that served as an anticoagulant. It could make being fed from addictive, even pleasurable. It seemed that this girl was so afflicted, for she wrapped her arms around the vampire’s neck, pressed her soft body against her, and offered the smooth, unbroken side of her throat.

She fed much more carefully, and the girl was still conscious when she’d had her fill. She released her and stood, lingering, while the girl draped herself over the bed. She was curious. It had been centuries since she’d had any real interaction with a mortal, and she could not understand why this girl would come back to a clearly dangerous vampire and offer herself so recklessly. She gained no more by letting Ataraxia feed from her than any other, safer vampire.

”I nearly killed you last time,” she said finally. The girl, pale but pink in the cheeks, looked up, half a smile on her face.

”You did not.”

”Why would you tempt fate twice?”

The girl considered her for a moment, and whatever passed behind her mortal eyes was beyond the Red Death’s comprehension. “I like women. As you do, oui? You are very strong, and you hurt me, but you were … passionné, and that is always better.”

Stone faced, Ataraxia had no idea what to say about that. Passion was not something she was oft accused of. Before she could think of a response or decide to leave, the girl seemed to gather her courage, speaking quickly.

“You are called Ataraxia, no? They say you are the queen.”

Violet eyes regarded the girl carefully. ”Some call me that.”

The girl must have been intoxicated from the feeding or delirious from the blood loss, because what she asked next she would have never dared in her right mind. ”You seem very sad. You do not like being queen?”

Ataraxia stared at her until the human began to squirm uneasily, and then finally turned away. She opened the door to leave, but before she left, she answered simply, ”No. I do not.”


------------

So why was she here, In the center of this ball room, locked in combat with her brother? Why had she made alliances, asked for favors, sacrificed her honor to stage this disaster that had turned back on her anyway? She wanted vengeance on Kestrel, yes, but she did not have to dethrone him to kill him. She wanted to take everything that mattered away from him, to humiliate and destroy him, but if she did, what then? Hadn’t she had her vengeance once before, and hadn’t she then ended up here, with a throne she did not want, because her people needed to be led in his absence? She did not lust for power. She wasn’t like him, she didn’t want to forge an empire in her name. She only wanted to see the vampires rise to their rightful place in this world, but trying to lead that effort had brought her nothing but pain and misery.

So why was she here? The vampiress parried a blow and stepped back, forced to give ground to account for her bad leg. It didn’t pain her, so she could put as much weight on it as the broken bone would structurally support, but she risked doing more damage to it, and could not depend on it to hold her weight without splintering. And that would be a critical error, as surprise and imbalance would give Kestrel all the opening he needed. As it was, it took every ounce of her concentration just to mount an effective defense against him. As powerful as he had been when they first fought, when she had won, his speed and strength now were freakish. Kestrel’s old body had been lithe and serpentine, but his agility now, even in a larger form, was almost beyond belief. Somehow, with only a dagger, he was holding his own against her wires, his tolerance for pain impressive, his stamina ferocious. With all of his pomp and his frippery, it was shocking to see him become such a monstrous warrior.

The Jackal howled, and the beasts joined the fray. Yes, that was right, Kestrel had still tipped his hand. Her ploy had worked, he had taken a blow and defended the Beast Queen for all to see. There was hope yet! As Noora fired a bolt toward her brother, she summoned her strength and sent her wires singing through the air toward his neck, but he dodged out of the way and came back swinging, forcing her back another step to avoid losing a hand. Back and forth they went, the fight parting around them as no one wanted to cross blades with either twin.

He taunted her, and she answered, even though she knew better. How dare he? How dare he blame her for where they were now? She lunged for him, smiling sickly when she watched the dagger go into her chest, driving her knee into his stomach with all her strength and bringing the metal hilt down on his collarbone, forcing him to his knees. She saw her chance, looking down at his exposed neck, raising the dagger for a blow with all her strength behind it - and then her fingers uncurled, her arm pushed backward. Ataraxia looked up at the knife that had pierced her wrist, damaging tendons and fracturing bones, costing her her chance. She saw a flash of golden hair in the crowd, and then her brother knocked her from her feet, striking her in the temple until she saw stars and lost all sense of direction, feeling the sudden urge to vomit. Dimly, she heard the metallic scrape of a dropped sword being lifted from the ballroom floor. She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to back up, finding the hilt of another blade beside her. She could not fight with swords as well as he could, she knew that, but without her equilibrium she was as likely to decapitate herself as him with her wires. She lurched to her feet, swinging wildly, dancing with him for a handful of heartbeats as the metal blades rang against each other.

Until her bad leg gave way beneath her, bone splintering under her kneecap, her balance tipping forward. The sword spun from her hand and into her brother’s grip, and another blow to her chest landed her flat on her back on the floor. The air hissed as Kestrel planted both blades in an x over her neck.

“Ataraxia Paradin Nihilo,”] he sneered, blood running into his eye and soaking his black hair from a cut on his forehead. “For the crimes of treason, regicide, usurping the throne, killing our kin, and for plotting insurrection, I strip you of all titles and power. No longer will you call yourself a queen.” His eyes were wild and vicious with triumph as the fighting stilled around them, every eye drawn by the king’s booming baritone. Ataraxia stared up at him, past the blades, with hatred in every line of her face. ”You have been tried in single combat and you have lost. I sentence you to die.”

”No,” she answered. I will not.”

The hiss of the blades sliding across each other would have been the last thing she heard, were it not for her curse. But instead, she lifted her arm at the last moment, so that the blades caught on her forearm, slicing muscle and breaking the bones within. But Ataraxia did not scream, did not flinch, did not make a sound. Instead, she twisted, using her shoulders and back to protect her neck from the swords, surging to her feet and grabbing one of the blades from the air, her other arm dangling uselessly by her side. She turned and plunged the blade backward, impaling her brother on it, narrowly missing his heart. He howled like a demon, spitting blood, and drove the other sword through her shoulder. For an instant they stared at each other, locked together and bloody, Kestrel trying to marshal the pain and regain his strength, Ataraxia fighting to take stock of wounds she could not feel and judge what still worked on her battered body.

But before either could make another move, they were both thrown backward. Into the empty space between them stepped the Jackal.

[Hamletmaschine]

gfx and coding by tiffner. please do not remove

Soft, wet snow crunched under heel and toe of her boots as she walked through the network of cut forest pathways the Beasts and Vampires had created for themselves over the course of the weeks they’d been stationed outside of the French capital. She moved by small lantern light, flickering with the wind. Dead as she was, the ingrained memories of what sleet felt like had made the apothecary wait impatiently within the Mephisto mansion until the storm had let up enough that should could pass within the trees without returning to her caravan ravaged by the elements.

Rosemary hadn’t wanted to linger. Not with Henry in such a foul mood. She thought back to what he told her… The Jackal. The woman of golden hair and jackal eyes. Yes, she knew of this creature. They called her the Midnight Jackal, Queen of the Beasts. Stories of her ran across the continent, and some even from the America’s had heard of her by now. She hunted the Earth, haunting every shadow and city for revenge, seeking the light of golden dawns.
Rosemary scoffed. The sun had forsaken them nearly a millennium ago. Anyone who thought the sun would return now was deranged. Most believed it to be the vampires. Some scientists ran with the theory that it had burnt out. Whatever the cause, if one thousand years hadn’t solved its mystery… maybe it wasn’t meant to be found.


When Rosemary re-entered her tent after a long evening away she had hoped to be greeted to a softly burning fire, sweet incense and soft furs to sleep upon. However, what she received was a mighty shock and a burning anger.
As she approached the small tent and caravan, just out of the way of the rest of the camp, the woman could begin to tell something was off. Every step brought her closer to another ticking heart. One more than aught to be there. She could also smell fresh blood, pure. Not Mephisto. Her brow twitched with annoyance.

Flipping back the tent flap, she stepped inside and clenched her jaw. Before her, nearly at her feet, lay a girl, blood from every limb seeping into the cold dirt. She looked as if she had been mauled by a dog. Or worse.
Above her was Arthur, wide-eyed and frantic. Blood covered their hands but Rose knew this wasn’t caused by them.

With a stomp of her foot the witch hurled the lantern in her hand upon the ground so it shattered, flames igniting around the oil as she seethed, “Arthur!” Her supernatural speed brought her before him. Her preternatural strength held him by the neck above her, “Who did this? Who left this bloody corpse in my home!”
They sputtered and cried out, and she put them back on their feet, “Imbecile.” she muttered under her breath as she turned away. Coldly, she looked down at the petite woman with arms crossed. She could still hear the heart beating, trying to survive. Her golden eyes perceived the damages that had been done to this girl, and she huffed, “Arthur,” She half looked over her shoulder, “Put her on the table.”

Rose strode over to her working bench and swiped it clear of it’s contents while her cohort picked up the body and laid her gingerly down. Rose then pointed to the caravan, “Bring me the chain from the horses and the bucket next to the fire.”
As Arthur did as they were told, Rose grimaced as she picked twigs and dirt from the body before her. The bleeding was bad, but the skin would heal with a boost from her. Skin was always the first to heal, thinly and in it’s many layers. The internal muscles, ligaments and bones took the longest. She could only imagine what, or who among them, could have done this…

Arthur returned swiftly. She yanked the chain from their hand to begin wrapping it snugly around the girl’s ankle. With keen eyes Rosemary unlocked the padlock from her caravan door and instead latched it the chain, locking the ankle to the table… For now.
Her counterpart stood silently, hovering. As she sigh and looked over the girl once more, the witch flicked her smouldering gaze upward and met Arthur’s sternly, “Now get out.”

She cared little about what they felt or said as they departed. They both would be over it in time. For the moment, she needed uninterrupted quiet as she worked to stop the blood, and to get this creature well enough to leave of her own accord. It wouldn’t be good practice to have this one’s death on her hands. Whoever left her here would surely thought to plant it on someone else… or at the least perhaps thought Rose could save her. They weren’t wrong, but she had little interest in being a martyr.


It was well into the dawn that the girl began to come around. Rose had spent much of her desired relaxation time bent over her cauldron while the salvs encouraged quick healing of the skin, and the sedative assisted in easing any pain. What blood was left in her body would heal the skin and work on the internal fixes when it could. Rose had watched over her through the evening from across the tent, hands working away at some oils and mixes in her mortar and pestle.

It was the increased pulse that the apothecary heard first, that alerted her to the vampire’s awakening. Her eyes flicked over to the young woman and watched as she began to come around, to notice her pain, to feel her restrictions in body and by the binding Rose left on her, and how she recoiled in fear.
Ilia panicked, pulling at the chain, yanking at the lock, the rattle and clanking loud against the solid wooden table. Her whimpering made the Mephisto shudder.

“Sit down!” she bellowed as she stood. She’d had just about enough of this whole ordeal and was ready to be done with it. Like a wraith, silent and fluid Rosemary moved to the table’s head and unlocked the chain from around her ankle, “It is inconveniences like you that get me tired of living.” she muttered snidely and struck the girl with her gaze, “Move along and get yourself some blood to fix those wounds.”

In silence the girl ground her teeth and swung her legs over the table, sliding herself down to the ground, but her knees could barely hold her own weight, “I don’t think I can do this right now.” she replied quietly. Rosemary caught her thick Russian accent quizzically. Ilia looked back to her through straight, black hair, “I don’t want to die out there.”

The witch raised her nose to her, a cocky smirk taunting her lips, “My dear, you do not want to die in here.”

The little Russian girl shook her head, her big dark eyes nearly pleading. Rosemary felt the corner of her upper lip snarl in response. Uncomfortable with the uneasy feelings within her chest, she anxiously turned and moved back to her cauldron to continue her work. Those big eyes of her’s were far too familiar…

"Are you a doctor? Can't you help me?"

"I'm no doctor, but I've helped you enough. You're a vampire. Beyond all reasonable doubts... you will survive." she replied with annoyance and venom.
Vampires. Beasts…. Mephisto. They would all survive. Only Henry’s plan, their plan, could bring an end to all this atrocity.

“Well, thank you.”

Rosemary sat back down on her stool and stirred the pot slowly, mist slowly churning up and dispersing. It was enough to mask her face a little, enough of a veil to hide that she was watching the girl try to leave. She was scared, cautious, and weak. She clung to the table as she tried to move forward, afraid her stilt-legs would snap. The apothecary softened inside, and smirked with a raised brow, “You’re a frail thing, aren’t you?”

She caught the Russian’s look of agitation. It was becoming very evident that Ilia was not yet capable of leaving. Not in her condition, “Who did this to you?”

"I lost a fight with a bear." Ilia replied curtly.

Rosemary’s expression smoothed and darkened then, a seriousness that she ought not be spoken back to. It was the look many children in New London feared, and what gave her the title ‘Mother Mary’.
Ilia seemed to grasp this, unable to hold her gaze as she added, "It was my fault. I did something I should not have and was then punished. It doesn't matter by whom."
Rosemary didn't agree. She found it hard to believe that she shouldn’t be aware of who could produce this amount of damage. Then again, a girl this petite could be beaten by anyone with a good arm.
She sighed, "Then I would heed their advice."

Rosemary stood slowly, her hands coming up as she took the small steps up to greet her caravan door. She entered and softly closed the door, leaving the Russian woman alone with her thoughts for some long minutes. When she returned, she came down to meet her on the table again, and absently placed a small needle on the surface, a clearish liquid within it’s housing, “Now then, what do you need further to get out of my sight?"

The girl stared at the needle for a moment, then looked back to Rose, "I've lost a lot of blood. If I wasn't so lightheaded, I might be able to make it back to my caravan and stitch myself up."

"Very well. Let me get you one thing better." The apothecary turned on her heels, her layers flowing about a long and lean body of dark skin. She rummaged about the tent gathering a few things, and then pulled over the IV drip. She attached a small bag of crimson, and thinned the top out with a iridescent green liquid.
Once the preparations were complete, her hand on Ilia’s shoulder gently forced the young lady onto her back against the cool table again. Taking the vampires' wrist she spoke softly, "This will get you home." She then placed the needle on the table into her hand, closing her fingers around it, "And this will help you sleep. But that's for later. Take it with you when the bag is empty.”

As she adjusted the bag and doubled checked the draw, she was stopped-
"Thank you. I truly owe you."

Rose angled herself towards the table and stared down at her, narrowed, for a long moment. Slowly, she lowered herself to meet Ilia's eye level, "Yes. You do,” she agreed through a husky voice, “And I will ask it of you when the time is right. Until then, I hope you never find this place again, young one."



It wasn’t long after that event that Henry came to see her. Rare was it for him to drift so far away from his personal base. The witch assumed it was his attempt to integrate his face more within the camp, to become more of a memory, personable. At least, it would be.

The instance in which he came for her was comfort. Chen had delivered to him the headless corpse of Walter, and he begged counsel from her. Troubling as it was that their General was already deceased so early in the game, it was stranger still that Hal needed any sort of guidance. She had always known her King to be very absolute. It was becoming clearer that he was cautious now, and taking all possible angles in before making decisions. Perhaps, even, they were over their heads…

Pulling her black shawl over her bare shoulders, her slender and skilled fingers moved to sweep her hair up from her eyes. With a sidelong glance, she gave her King a small smile, “I do have good news for you, in the midst of all this uncertainty.”

He’d been sitting in the chair at the end of bed, legs propped up along the footboard while lost in thought. As Hal met her eyes, his mouth smoothed into a creamy, sly smile, “Tell me.” he encouraged her, sitting up with interest and intrigue.

“I have confirmed for you this Jackal of yours.” she smirked, watching her King nearly jump out of his seat with delight. His grin spread and he leaned forward, sliding his hand around her bicep to pull her closer, “Tell me all you know, Rose.”
The apothecary complied to his touch, laying out on her stomach with elbows resting on the footboard, “I’ve observed her in the forest around us. I’ve felt her through the trees. The creatures fear her and clear the areas where she walks. She knows of my presence here, but has not investigated more than that. She knows I watch her, as others do.” She rested her chin upon her palm, “Mercia Addison. The Midnight Jackal. You will find her there, but not as a mortal. As a beast.”

“Mercia.” he rolled over his tongue. The light in his eyes began to diminish, to return to that lifeless void of grey. When he stood, Rosemary frowned and shifted to sit upright again, “Whatever you plan to do, you must do so quickly. Act while she is vulnerable. The Beasts are scattered… I have heard over the whispers that their ranks are shattered. One who cares to leave them for the enemy, and her closest has been expelled from her sight for treason.”

Hal moved about the small, dark caravan, in and out of the candlelights as he pondered aloud, “I intend to offer our hand to her.”

The witch hissed under her breath, but his hand came up to stop her, “Her power is as fragile as ours. She will be hard-pressed to resist aid of any kind. Even us.”

Rose scowled, lips as tightly closed as her jaw. Hal saw her disapproval, and sympathized with a soft approach, “Rose, my eyes, my heart. Do you not trust me?”

“My trust in my King has never wavered. My apprehension lies with those he believes are his friends.” she replied as he sat next to her, taking her face in his hands.

“Waste not your mind to such notions. My Shadow will protect my back while I protect our front.” he assured her.

Anxiety brewed in her chest, but she held her tongue.

“The Paradin Twins and their squabbles have devastated her. She will bend her will to me to seek her end. You’ll see.”

His words were soft whispers along her skin, her eyes closing as she breathed the scent of decay between them. Her hand delicately found his heart, her hand almost black against his pearly bare chest. Cold, as cold as her hand. Her eyes opened to meet his, and within them she found determination, “Yes M’lord.”

[Pax Britannica]

• ♛ℬ ᴇ ᴡ ᴀ ʀ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴊ ᴀ ᴄ ᴋ ᴀ ʟ ʜ ᴏ ᴡ ʟ s ʜ ᴇ ʟ ᴏ ᴏ ᴋ s ғ ᴏ ʀ ʙ ʟ ᴏ ᴏ ᴅ ᴀ ɴ ᴅ ᴀ ʟ ᴡ ᴀ ʏ s ғ ɪ ɴ ᴅ s ɪ ᴛ
  〉〉 ❛α נαcкαƖ ɗσєѕη'т cσηcєяη нєяѕєƖf ωιтн тнє σριηιση σf ѕнєєρ❜ ««
  
  
  When Mercia fought, there were no thoughts, no musings, no curiosities or questions or conflicted feelings. There was only the action and reaction and next action of battle. Her body was fluid, her motions and attacks not so much a series as one continuous motion, faster than most eyes could follow. True to their promise, Noora and Maeve had not garbed their queen in anything that would hinder her movement - not that she would have hesitated to rip it to shreds if they had. The queen was no more than a blur of gold, cream, and black, her passing marked by crimson puddles and white shards of bone.The wiser vampires tried to move out of her path, but they were not fast enough, and the Jackal moved with the seamless unpredictability of licking flames.
  
  Instinct whispered her name, and the Jackal turned, glimpsing a flash of red through the crowd. Her eyes followed the silver glint of a dagger rising, the downward blow destined for the back of a neck she recognized by no earthly means. She did not need to think before she let fly a dagger wrenched from the broken hand of a nearby vampire. It hit Ataraxia’s wrist with a wet crunch, knocking the blade from her hand. Kestrel looked up before she could spin away again, catching her gaze boldly with that characteristically cocky smirk. Always with Kestrel it was a combination of revulsion and allure; a hunger to be closer to him so that she could rip that smug smile off his handsome face.Their gazes locked, and in that moment Mercia offered no explanations or apologies for the momentary assistance. None was needed, just as she did not wonder why he had stepped in front of his sister’s wires for her. The words remained unspoken, but they understood one another. Just as they understood that neither was protected from the other, but only from outsiders.
  
  The gap in the crowd closed again, hiding the dueling twins from view even as the whistling sound of the Red Death’s wires slid through the noise on another frequency. Had Kestrel come fully armed, the Jackal doubted that Ataraxia would have stood a chance. But the arrogant fool had little weaponry and less armor to protect him from his spidery sister’s metallic threads. Still, Mercia had not a doubt in her mind that the Leech King was in any real danger. Like a cockroach, he simply would not die, no matter how many times his enemies tried to put him down.
  
  Happily for the Jackal, not all leeches were so lucky. She felled them one after the other, too many to count. This was why the werebeasts endured, why the war was not already lost, even though the Moon Called bore fewer and fewer cubs, while the vampires spawned ever more clockwork monstrosities - because every beast was worth a hundred leeches at least. Those that had assumed their feral forms were huge - canines, avians, and other, more exotic species that were triple or quadruple the size of their animal counterparts, crashing through the crowd with jaws and claws that lashed out in every direction. Mercia watched one werewolf bear down on a vampire and crush its skull between its massive jaws, then turn to bat a massive paw at three more trying to attack it from behind, throwing them off with ruthless efficiency.
  
  Mercia did not fight in her feral form. She did not need to. Nor did she strictly speaking need weapons. All she needed was her strength and her speed, along with a vicious instinct that had been honed over a millenia of killing leeches. It was easier than breathing.
  
  The pulse of the fight skipped a beat, and Mercia felt the current change. Heads turned as Kestrel’s voice rang out again, all eyes finding him as he stood over his sister and condemned her.
  
  Mercia’s gaze was impassive. She cared nothing for the fate of the Red Death, even thought that her demise was likely an inevitability in a world that would not suffer two Paradins to live. And yet … something, some instinct within her wanted her to intervene. Not with the same force and focus as when Kestrel was in danger, but … she felt the itch of compulsion to stay his hand. Do not let him kill her. it whispered, but offered no explanation. Not that it mattered. She could not intervene publicly when Kestrel had beaten the queen so soundly. Ataraxia would die.
  
  The frigid woman showed a surprising last shred of reserve though, fighting her way free of her executioner. Neither twin was going to let the other live.
  
  With the calm of a creature ageless beyond measure, Mercia assessed the situation. Both monarchs were bleeding freely and had suffered serious wounds. The death toll of the battle she was already estimating at a hundred or more, mostly vampires from God only knew which camp, but also here and there a were, overcome by sheer numbers. And the tide of the battle had turned against her own kind, as they made for a more obvious target that a leech who supported one twin or the other. They stood to lose much on every side if this continued, with only greater weakness if one of the vampire leaders died. It was time to call a halt.
  
  Before either twin could strike another blow, Mercia had stepped between them, shoving them apart with such force that both staggered. She stood in the empty space between them, fearless. She could probably kill them both if she had to. Probably.
  
  Kestrel snarled at her first, his bloodlust making his reckless. ”Step aside, Mercy. This is not your fight.”
  
  The Jackal regarded him coldly. ”While you are my ally” her whiskey voice sneered the word, ”it is. Allies who are killing each other are worthless to me. We make the job of the Templars easier.”
  
  Ataraxia stepped forward, badly wounded, with a crippled arm and a crippled leg. If Mercia moved aside, she would die. Mercia did not trust though that she would not gladly die if she could take her brother with her, which was something the Jackal could not allow. The vampires would turn on each other and the weres without leadership. ”This must end. One of us has to die.”
  
  The Jackal shook her golden head once. ”If he wins, yours will never forgive or follow him. If you win, his will never respect or follow you. If any of us are ever to reclaim our home, you must both live.”
  
  Ataraxia lunged.
  
  Mercia Addison had thought she might. The smaller woman ducked under her reach and took the bad leg out from beneath her, turning to grab her by the throat and slam her to the floor. The Red Death let out a noise that was half a hiss and half a cry. The Jackal crouched over her, meeting those purple eyes. In them, she saw the brewings of the same madness that had taken her old friend Jonathan from her. ”If you fight you will die. Save your vengeance, leech.” She straightened again, the entire room still around her. She left the vampiress gasping on the floor and turned away, pausing beside Kestrel as she went to move past him. ”She will die for a mere chance at killing you,” she warned very softly. ”Do not die like a fool before I am finished with you.”
  
  With that, she lifted her head, glimpsing Noora’s strange expression through the crowd, feeling the stares of her beasts and the vampires alike. She cared nothing for them, any of them. She had done as she had always done, what she must for the survival of her people. She walked out the front door escorted by numbing silence, out into the silence of eternal night.