TVC II Chapter 1 - Old Faces

[Disciple of Nagash]

Looking out over the city it was hard to believe how much it had changed in such a short space of time. Where once there was only silence and death now there was life, the shouts of the street sellers, the cries of children and the rest that came with so many living together.

Yet there was no doubt that Nehekhara was still the Kingdom of the Dead, which the Tomb Kings still ruled. A garrison of long dead warriors only highlighted this fact, the troops given a wide respectful berth by all in their path.

Who would have thought that the living and the dead could be convinced to peacefully cohabit?

Not I

Rowhaine broke from his reverie, releasing he must have projected loud enough for this thoughts to be picked up.

This was something neither I nor the others ever foresaw. It is truly a creation of your own my love, and one we are all truly grateful for.

Rowhaine turned back from the window, his tall muscled body temporarily blocking the light into the room.

‘I am glad to serve’ he thought in return, walking over low table that he had placed his sword, ‘though I fear it will all be for naught. Has anything else come to light?’

Not that we can see, and that in itself is worrying. The fact that it is hidden from our sight speaks of immense power, as since the remaking of the covenant we have ascended once more. There is little in this world we cannot see.

‘Yet it is still happening’ Rowhaine replied, hooking the glowing bronze khopesh onto his back. It was a mighty weapon, yet against his own godly aura its power seemed to diminish. ‘The guardians on the eastern entrance no longer answer the Priest’s summons, the 6th legion was found in pieces and that was only in the last week. With each month the force that sustains the dead is diminishing and the rebirth is too young to be left now.’

We know, we feel it. It is not just here. Around the world the power of the dead, of necromancy is waning. We are not sure why, though Tahoth feels certain that the destruction of Nagash was the focal point. In some way the Dark Lord sustained the flow, focused it and with his absence its strength has lessened each year.

‘I don’t understand how that is the case. I learned somewhat of the winds from the Mistress-‘ even as he said her name Rowhaine felt a pang of loss. It was hard to believe that it had been over eight years since she passed from the world, in truth he had thought nothing would have ever been strong enough to destroy one as potent as she. In the end it had been her own guilt which had killed her, a fact he only learnt when the massive Strigoi Graveclaw had passed on a final message.


‘From what I learnt the winds come from the north, not sustained by one being.’

That is the way we understand it as well, yet it still does not stop what is happening. The living dead, even vampires, are losing their strength and powers.

Years ago we would have welcomed this, but now they are needed. The followers of the four pour forth with a new champion, a champion beyond measure of any encountered before.

Living and dead must unite if either wish to survive

Rowhaine sighed inwardly, though to the outside world he remained as stoic as always. During the conversation he had walked from his chambers, nodding to those who bowed before him. Try as he might he could not stop either the living or the dead from venerating him, the Champion of the Gods. It did not help that after the covenant had been made, all the Gods had blessed him in some fashion, and to most he was literally their gods made flesh.

Despite the resurrection of the Nehekharan pantheon and their blessings, he still remained first and foremost the Avatar of Asaph, and in truth she jealously guarded him, as well starting to refer to him as “love” in the recent years. Though once awed by her presence they had become familiar as friends if it was possible to be one with an entity as powerful as she, and even moreso in the past few months as they had unravelled what was happening in the world.

‘You know that elsewhere they will not see that. I hold little sway with old Council members, and the Carsteins have annexed half of the Empire. They are at war and I very much doubt they will look past that to the greater danger.’

You must try my love, there is no other way. In you we place the lives of new Nehekhara, we place our trust, our power. Yet through might alone you will not sway them. Though I detest to say it, you must look to your father-in-darkness. Amongst all the Carsteins he was perhaps the most diplomatic, the most silver tongued. If not for Milosh in the early days the Council would not have survived. You must use some of those skills, that knowledge.

You can claim kin to the Carsteins. You must get them to listen or they will be destroyed, it is that simple.

If it was in his character Rowhaine would have laughed, instead he settled for raising his eyebrow in amusement.

‘You have clearly not spent much time around the Carsteins. They make Settra look positively humble in their arrogance.’

Outside the Ushabti stood to attention. It was still unusual to see the original of their kind, the human warriors blessed with the powers of their chosen god, though in recent years they had started rebuilding their numbers, taking over from the walking statues that had fought in their stead for so long.

“Your chariot awaits Chosen One,” Phahotep rumbled. The powerful warrior was Rowhaine’s second and bore the blessings of Geheb in his immense strength and limbs as hard has bronze. An escort of ten Ushabti had been selected to escort Rowhaine, although in reality his strength far exceeded theirs.

In this case however Settra was untractable. The Tomb King was once again the unchallenged ruler of Nehekhara, and whatever his faults may have been previously he now ruled with a fair if iron grip. He knew a great part of that was down to the actions of Rowhaine, and the ancient ruler would be damned if he would be known as the King who allowed the Champion of Gods venture forth without suitable escort and prestige.

Outside the courtyard Rowhaine could already see the throngs of people waiting for his departure, along no doubt with the well-wishing parties from the other city states. This was going to take some time


******************

“What of Nehklior and the others?” Rowhaine asked. It had taken hours to leave Khemri, and they were delayed furthermore by the escort to the boundaries of Nehekhara. On their own, he and the Ushabti could move at a punishing pace, yet once again he chosen the path of diplomacy.

“We received word that they will meet us at the boundary of Sylvania,” Phahotep said, spitting sand out of his mouth. The tall warrior’s eye constantly scanned the lands around, but it was unlikely he would spot anything before Tur’oth, the keen-eyed Ushabti of Phakth,
“He said he didn’t want to get involved in the frivolous waste of time that would be our departure.”

“Sounds like his usual tactful self,” Rowhaine remained dryly to muted laughter, “and the rest?”

“Apart from Simon-“ Rowhaine’s raised eyebrow cut him off. After a moment Phahotep sighed and continued, “-Imperator Carstein I mean of course, we have heard little else. We sent messengers far and wide but most have not yet come back or could not locate those they sought. The Imperator acknowledged and granted an audience at Drakenhof as you know, but he did not confirm who would be attending from his family either.”

Rowhaine nodded, although he already knew,

“I know you find such diplomacy tiring at times, but you must observe the proper manner,” he spoke quietly to his second, “especially to the vampires. The Carsteins especially demand respect, whether or not they have earned it. In this case, Imperator Carstein most certainly has due to his actions in the war, despite the untasteful actions in the last ten years. That is not of our concern. We are travelling them to try and convince them of something they will most assuredly not want to hear, the last thing we want to do is start things off badly.”

Phahotep nodded. In truth Rowhaine could understand the warriors feelings. To be an Ushabti was to be chosen by the gods to serve them, to receive their blessing. It was only natural to feel superior to those around them, especially when the normal folk held them in reverence. Most of them managed to stop before the point of arrogance, but it still smarted to show respect to a creature most thought of nothing more than an animal.

“Then I suggest we move with all speed. The last thing we need is Nehklior getting bored and deciding to have a little experiment whilst he waits for us.”

Rough chuckles filled the air as they rode into the dark night…..

OOC: Please make sure you read my post in the OOC thread about Chapter 1 before posting.

 

[Harland]

The roiling wave of coruscating magic cascaded down the wide, baroque corridor. Roland cursed and leapt headlong towards an alcove, the lethal wave passing a hair's breadth over his cloak. As he struggled to his feet, he heard his assailant rasp fell words into the shrieking gloom. Roland quickly turned to face the necromancer, and grunted as a flailing, emaciated arm swung into his vision and struck him on the chest. He staggered back from the blow, bringing up his right hand to catch the other arm on his long knife. The honed blade slid easily through the rotten flesh and snagged on the ridged bone. With his other hand, Roland punched the zombie on the brow,causing it to stumble backwards and collapse. Roland leapt over the writhing body, parrying the wild swing of an armorless skeleton, which he crumpled with a jabbing kick to the rib cage. Ahead, the necromancer was still entranced in his chant, shadows seeping from his eyes and ears, and entwining with his wiry, unkempt beard. From doors on either side of the corridor wear emerging more skeletons, these ones garbed in thick obsidian armor. Each carried a broad shield. The skeletons formed a rank across the width of the corridor, obscuring the still chanting necromancer behind them, and slowly made their approach. Roland cursed. Looks like I'd better finish this. Sheathing his long kinves, his eyes fell on the artistically buttressed alcove to his right. Planting his foot on the buttress and withdrawing a small knife from beneath his cloak, he leapt forwards and up, casting the knife from his hand. Just before he crashed into the feet of the approaching skeletons, he tucked his head in and gathered his cloak around him, bracing himself for the blades cutting through the thin, black fabric and into his flesh. They never came.
After a few moments, he staggered to his feet. The skeletons were lying in pieces around him, the black magic holding their bones together having dissolved. The necromancer himself lay ten paces ahead, the throwing knife buried up to its hilt in his neck. Roland let out a long sigh and turned. Strewed down the length of the corridor were bodies of the undead in various states of disrepair. His eyes fell on the razor-toothed edge of a mechanical buckler poking out of an alcove. His brow rose.
"You can come out now," he said.

 

[The Archivist]

Faust poked his head round the corner of the corridor.
"Thank you Roland. I need to find the library, you can have the rest of the mansion."
Faust trod carefully over the skeletons, his chain buckler on his right arm, before plucking a key from the necromancers corpse.
"Enslaver." He kicked the corpse and climbed the stairs towards the library. He entered the library and barred the door behind him with a chair. He began to search the shelves, slowly and methodically.
After a while he took off his back pack and chain buckler, laying them gently on a chair. He took a stack of volumes, bending slightly under the weight, and dropped them on the necromancer's pristine writing desk. Faust closed the curtains, lit a lamp and began to scan the indexes.

 

[Harland]

Roland chuckled as Faust closed the door behind him. His eyes fell once again on the slain necromancer. Striding over, Roland crouched down and slowly withdrew the knife from the almost bloodless wound. Cleaning the knife on the necromancer's robes, he stared into the man's sightless eyes, wondering what would drive a man down such a depraved path. These musings swiftly faded as he straightened, and returned the knife to its pocket. Now, let's see just how much of a hoarder this old geezer actually was.

 

[the hidden one]

"Stop!" yelled the passing warden, raising his arms and nearly smacking Igor in the face. Subtly reaching for his daggers, leered at the man. "Why is that kind sir?" Igor replied, with his most sarcastic smile, making his scarred face look quite demented. The warden backed away cautiously. "What is your business in sylavania?" He asked, already regretting the question. Igor closed in to the warden, "Well, you really don't want me to tell you. In fact I think that you"- his daggers flashed, faster than the eye could see, one going into the man's stomach, the other going into his eye, killing him instantly. "Well, that's that." Igor said cheerfully, sipping the freshly spilled blood of the man, and putting his cloak over his shoulders. He instantly melded into the shadows behind him in the trees. He could see the distant outline of castle drakenhoff in the horizon. He would be there in the next two days if he didn't have constant interruptions. Perhaps a quieter approach to the castle was warranted.

 

[Bounce]

Elanor walked purposefully beneath the grim, leaf less trees of some forest probably with some doom laden name like Forest of Shadow or Forest of Silence or maybe Forest of Doom. Either way she wasn't particularly interested in names. There was no moon tonight but that didn't concern her either. She could see like a cat. What did concern her was the piece of parchment she held in her hand. It was much creased and travel stained, revealing that it had been read and re read several times. She was unsure what to make of it. Could it be a trap? Could it be true? She had heard of this Rowhaine only in myths and stories but then she supposed she had once thought vampires were a myth and look at her now, one of the walking dead.

She sighed bitterly and turned to face her entourage. Seven meagre skeletons, marching (if it could be called marching) along, their limbs infused with glowing green magic. Each had irritated her in some way but now she almost felt an odd attachment to them. People were so much easier to talk to when they were dead. She had never really got the hang of raising spirits but she had to agree with this Rowhaine it had become even more difficult of late. The strain was taxing and it concerned her deeply. What would happen if the powers sustaining her disappeared completely? It didn't bear thinking about.So she ahd decided at last to go and find out what this message was about. She didn't trust him of course but maybe she could learn something.

 

[the hidden one]

Popping out of the shadows, Igor slit the man's throat, and grasping his wife's mouth to stifle her scream, slitting her throat too. The barn was suddenly silent, and Igor fed once again on the couple. Then, he spotted a magnificent black horse. It had to be arcane. It was jet black, with a flaming orange mane, and a spiked steel collar. Approaching from behind, Igor grasped the horse, sunk his fangs into its' throat, and blessed the horse with the a macabre version of the blood kiss. A couple hours later, Igor was off, getting only three hours away from the castle on his new prize.

 

[Malochai]

Markus was sat in his study, pouring over the books as was his habit, ensuring all the numbers matched. He’d managed to balance the books for Carrasville, coming to the conclusion that the taxes he levied, fair as they were, kept the gold flowing into his coffers and his militia armed and armoured. He looked around the large room, looking at the ceiling height bookshelves, lined with books that, to mortals, would be considered rare and expensive. He smiled, shook his head and stood. Lit as he was by the fire dancing joyfully in the ornate marble, the shadow he cast seemed looming above his own impressive form. The baron of Carrasville and Felaburg walked gracefully towards one bookcase in particular, his every movement conservative and purposeful. His hand reached out, and the index finger of his right hand carefully caressed the leather-bound book, feeling the author’s name indented into the material. A sigh passed his lips, and he took his finger off the book. ‘Oh, the years passed and yet nothing has changed ...’ he told himself, shaking his head sadly, eyes closed as he thought back to better times.

He stood like that, still as a statue, for what felt like a millennium until he heard the sound of feet slapping the ground. He roused himself and coughed reflexively, a habit he’d adopted after seven hundred years of undeath. He walked back to his desk, a huge, polished beast with feet carved in the likeness of dragon’s feet, and sat in the ornate chair which faced the door, the plush lining absorbing his bulk easily, and another sigh, this time of contentment, passed his lips. He looked to his books again, and began the tedious job of copying the Carrasville accounts into his master book.

Half an hour had passed before a reasonable distraction came his way - thud, thud, thud. The knocking startled him, but he kept his reflexes under control and berated himself for allowing someone to get so close without hearing them. He cleared his throat, and then called out. “Enter!” His voice, deep and controlled, gravelly and somehow honeyed, just with that single word, conveyed a sense of power beyond the ken of most men. The heavy door, made of a weathered oak from the Forest of Shadows, opened silently, to reveal a guard, wearing the livery of Baron Shiefter with pride. The sword at his waist was visibly sharp and well-maintained, his armour spit-polished to a reflective sheen.

“Speak,” the baron said, gesturing with his hand as if he were deeply engrossed in his task. The guard, clearly new to his position and unprepared to suddenly meet his lord so soon, stumbled over his first few words, whilst Markus patiently waited, now looking at him, golden eyes focussed on his face. Eventually the man stopped trying to speak, took a breath and began again.

“Milord, the Castellan has requested your presence in the dungeons, at your earliest convenience. He says it is, however, a matter of some urgency.”

Markus nodded, face set in a grim smile. “Tell him I will be there momentarily.” The guard nodded and, at another wave of Markus’ hand, closed the door and his feet could be heard rapidly retreating. As soon as the militiamen had gone, the baron, now frowning, stood and walked over to sword stand by the fireplace and buckled it onto his belt with practiced ease.

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The dungeons, lit by torches burning greedily every five feet, were close and circuitous, iron bar doors every twenty paces revealing cells made of solid, quarried stone. Markus reflected on their use over the past seven hundred years, holding criminals of all kinds - from petty thieves to murderers of the most horrific kinds, committing crimes that even Markus blanched at. He shook his head at the stupidity of humanity, but his thoughts couldn’t dwell on the matter as he entered the room in which he interrogated the criminals of his realms. Before him unfolded an odd scene, one even he hadn’t seen before. In the centre of the room, on a metal grate which led to one of the greatest secrets of Markus’ lands, knelt a tall, tanned man, wearing foreign clothes, chains of steel and silver running from his wrists to loops in the floor and then the ceiling, whilst another linked the collar around his neck to the floor. Ten guards, wielding poleaxes, had their weapons leveled at the prisoner whilst he strained to escape and another five men, bureaucrats and administrators, surrounded the Castellan, a grizzled man with an ugly, knotted scar running across his left eye and a rough, white-specked beard of iron grey hair, who turned to see his lord enter the room, and bowed slightly from the waist.

“Baron Shiefter,” he began, nodding his head once more in acquiescence, “A routine cavalry patrol found the intruder. Because of his ... Outlandish appearance, to say the least, they apprehended him. He didn’t go down easily, breaking the limbs of three men and rendering two horses lame, but he was subdued and returned here. There’s something else as well, sir ... However, it may be best discussed in private?” The look on his face caused Markus some concern; it was unlike Adelbert to look so anxious. The baron nodded in agreement.

“Very well then, Castellan Adelbert.” He looked to everyone else in the room, including the guards, and then ordered them to leave, waving away their concerns. The Castellan stayed in his position, hands clasped behind his back formally, whilst Markus circled the prisoner, like a feline predator.

“Baron Shiefter, this letter was found with the prisoner.” He stepped forward, producing a sheaf of thick papyrus and handing it to his master. Curious now, Markus stopped pacing and took it, reading the confident, elegant lettering of the writing.

I hope this message finds thee well. I write to you as the Rowhaine, get of Milosh and Lesa Cromwell as known to you all. Many of you also know that I now reside in Nehekhara as the Chosen of the Gods, and I bring dire news.

All of the dead know of the calamity that has befallen, that the power is draining year by year. I have uncovered knowledge as to the cause of this, and perhaps a solution.

To that end I urge you convene at the Castle of Drakenhof, on the next Geheimnistag. Imperator Carstein has granted us the use of the keep and safe passage in his lands.

I trust that these words will sway you to the urgency of this cause.

Whilst he was interested in the entirety of the letter, the mention of Imperator Carstein transfixed him, face setting in a stone-like demeanor. “You did the correct thing keeping this private, Adelbert,” he murmured, “I’ll be leaving an hour after dark. Have my steed made ready. I’ll be leaving my lands, so I’ll have to prepare. I suppose circumstance dictates I take an escort on my travels ... I'll take twenty of the Under Guard.” Adelbert started to protest, but his concerns, akin to those voiced by the guards not minutes before, were waved aside. "If they cannot do their task missing twenty of their number, they do not deserve to be part of the Under Guard. Have them horsed and saddled before I arrive." The Castellan nodded, worry penetrating his gaze, and left his lord to his pacing, inspecting the prisoner. Thoughts flooded through Markus’ mind, foremost - ‘What could be so dire as to attempt to convene the Council once more?’

-----------------------------------------------------------​

Hours later, and Markus was prepared to depart his lands. His steed, a bay-coloured stallion with a mane of jet black, standing at eighteen hands high at the withers, was waiting for him, pawing at the ground with hooves shoed in steel, shimmering in a mesmerising pattern in the moonlight. Beyond the pproud equine beast, twenty men sat silently upon their horses smartly, only moving to steady their mounts if necessary. Markus approached steadily, walking through the underground passage with commanding confidence. His appearance was completely different; whereas before he had been the epitome of an Imperial lord, now he looked like his moniker ‘The Lion of Araby’. The mask he wore, cold against even his undead skin, was masterfully worked into the visage of a snarling lion, and his hair looked akin to a real mane, the golden locks flowing over his shoulder like water over a fall. The armour he wore looked like stone, golden and ornate silver runes, the purpose of which was unknown, were inlaid, the ancient language of Bel-Aliad and Nehekhara had eluded all of Markus’ attempts to learn it. The baron had left the Claws which accompanied his armour off, hooked onto a special harness on the front of his saddle, in case he had to access them easily. He also had a sword, a poor facsimile of the ancient style, was strapped to his saddle, but he used it as a last resort.

With a last glance at Carrasville, and a curt nod to Adelbert, he swung himself up into the stallions saddle and pressed his heels in gently, causing the horse to jump and shoot forwards, into the woods of Ostland, the long journey to Castle Drakenhof underway. His retinue followed in formation, two to a rank and ten deep.

 

[Mello]

A majestic, sorrowful chord echoed through the vast cave and died down slowly. Sitting in the centre was a structure that seemed part of the mountain itself it was so vast, if it weren't punctuated by brass pipes and a lone figure in the centre of it. As the remnants of the music faded, Alastor lifted his head up from looking at the keyboard of the organ and wiped a tear off his mask. With the tear went his sorrow, and Alastor's face subtly hardened, not into cruelty, but into passive politeness and complete emotional void. He slid off the stool and stood up smoothly, turning around to see Kraskor standing there.

Alastor still couldn't get the hang of formalities, so stood silently and waited for him to speak. Finally Kraskor lost patience, and spoke, interrupting the unnatural silence

"We are leaving to Drakenof now." he stated, his voice reverberating until once more there was silence.

Alastor paused, then sighed. "Very well."

Alastor moved silently compared to Kraskor's armoured form, which produced a soft clicking noise on the wet stone floor as the pair of them left. As Alastor left the main cavern, he glanced behind him at his organ, and whispered softly. The air pump slowed and stopped, and the light that seemed to permeate the organ with an odd blue green light started to die out. The cave plunged into complete darkness.

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

Alastor stood motionless, gazing upwards as the two dragons flew off. Naturally he was two young and unimportant to arrive at Drakenhof in style, so he was to proceed on foot, which wasn't too bad really, it meant he got some time to spend with himself. Not having to pack, he headed off at what humans would call sprinting, but for him was a steady jog.

As he ran, melodies to the tempo of his steady footsteps wove themselves out of his imagination, and Alastor closed his eyes as hundreds of possible melodies and harmonies came to him. But none of them were good enough, they all lacked the sorrow and loss that he sought to express.

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

Alastor came to a stop near a small village as the tell tale orange of daytime began to seep across the horizon. He still hadn't fully shrugged off the burning sensation and severe weakness that natural light gave him, and preferred to stay indoors when he had a choice. It was still very early however, and he walked the streets alone into the village. He came to a stop in the crossroads that were the centre of the town, and circled slowly, taking in his surroundings. A farmer's wife opened her curtains and paused, staring at him as a slight breeze picked up, stirring up his cloak. Alastor slowly turned his head to look at her, inadvertently revealing his mask. The wife brusquely shut the window loudly. The orange on the horizon was turning to a deep red, he didn't have too much time.. Finally he noticed a small tombstone peeking out behind a large stone building. Alastor smiled, a cemetry.

As he entered a couple of crows took off, cawing as they were denied their early meal for the day. A low mist hung just above the ground and although it was being dissipated by dawn, it seemed to cling to him as some last vestige of hope, his cloak producing ripples in a motionless sea. Finding a suitable crypt to stay in Alastor closed his eyes, concentrating on the space a couple of feet beyond the door, what it contained, or rather, what it was going to contain. A whisper of a breeze, a shift in perspective, and total darkness fell as he opened his eyes in the tomb, a couple of feet behind the door. Alastor, in his private state, allowed himself a little smile, he was getting rather good at this strange power of his, nobody could explain why he could do it anyway, he wasn't very good at all other magic that had been attempted to be taught to him, he didn't really.. understand how they envisaged the world, for him, it was just.. fractured. Alastor took off his mask, hissing in pain as the flesh stuck to the smooth bone, and sat down on the floor, resuming the level of existence that passes for sleep for vampires, the necromantic energy around him soothing his pain ever so slightly as he dreamt of times he wished existed, and music yet unperformed

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

The only thing heralding Alastor's departure was the slight sound of him re-appearing, and the night-time mist being blown away. As it re-congealed he had already left the graveyard.

Alastor was three quarters of his way through the journey, currently flanking around the edges a forest, when a slight rustle pricked his ears. He smiled to himself, obviously the thing that had attracted his attention hadn't noticed the dried leaved on the ground as he had, he would've gone through the forest otherwise but he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention, such as himself. Slowing to a walk, he listened and watched intently. A flicker of black moving amongst the grey trees caught his eye, then some yellowy white, definitely bone.. as well as multiple foot steps.. Alastor frowned inwardly, and decided to trail them for the next hour, as they were only moving at walking pace. After the time had passed and nothing had changed, Alastor realised that his companions were heading in the same direction as he had intended to. Maybe they too were heading to Drakenhof.

Making his mind up, Alastor sprinted ahead of the party for a good 10 minutes flittingly enjoying the power that seethed through his legs. Undeath definately did have its perks at times. Alastor entered the forest as quietly as possible, and 'shifted' to a tree with some leaves still remaining on it for cover. Sure enough he soon heard rustling ahead of him, and he peeked out of his cover, and his eyes widened in first surprise and then amusement. A female vampire, a noble definitely, with eight skeletons as some sort of entourage. He chuckled inwardly, probably Lahmian if what he was told was true, because she was wearing totally impractical clothing and seemed to be completely oblivious to the racket she, well mostly the skeletons, was making. As she approached, he closed his eyes and prepared to shift. Unfortunately he had climbed higher up the tree to get a higher vantage point, so this was going to take come concentration... as he imagined himself lower down, a slight hum filled the air, and then a woosh of air as he appeared on the ground violently, leaves scattering everywhere. Alastor stood up slowly, seeing a shocked pale woman in front of him.

He smiled his signature half smile, "Hello"

 

[Simon von Carstein]

Colonel Canaris squatted down by the stream. In his left hand he held a small mirror and in his right he held a cutthroat razor. Dipping it once again into the stream he slowly and methodically trimmed his beard and sideburns.

He could hear the sounds of his men enjoying their breakfast in the distance. A few feet away his second in command Captain Vorbeck leaned against a tree somewhat relaxed but still alert and watchful. "Cheer up Captain! I'm sure you'll be back on the front lines at some point." said the Colonel as he shaved.

The captain nodded "The sooner the better sir." he replied "I'm a soldier not a ranger. I should be on a battlefield not wasting away patrolling this god forsaken place."

The Colonel finished his task and stood up carefully folding the razor and putting it away with the mirror. "Hardly god forsaken captain considering the Triumvirate have sent us here to keep an eye on it. Think of it as a working holiday, a chance to recover from the all the excitement of war."

The Colonel did not blame Vorbeck for feeling left out. The man had been fighting for the Triumvirate for nearly twelve years he had orriginally been part of the three regiments raised by the now Marshal Constantine who had been one of the first mortals to throw in his lot with the Lord Imperator Simon back during the war with Nagash.

Even after the end of that war there had been no peace. The Lord Imperator had immediately begun a fresh offensive against everything in the region of the Border Princes before its renaming as the Ikaanan territories. The strigany and their Strigoi masters had been the first to feel the wrath of the Lord Imperator slaughtered in their hundreds and driven southwards towards the lands of Nehekhara and Araby. They had been lucky. The Orcs were next and after a series of battles they had been vanquished. The Orcs had been a powerful foe but Grand Marshal Aurelius had metophorically and quite literally ripped the heart out of them in a matter of weeks. The survivors now resided in the Badlands replenishing their numbers but no doubt the grand marshal would be ready for them if they returned.

The Colonel smiled to himself. Vorbeck would be able to take his pick of foes to fight. The captain had been his adjutant now for over five years and whenever the Colonel hadn't been on a mission for his master the two had fought in many actions across the Carstein territory and would doubtless continue to do so for years to come.

"Sir!" His train of thought broken the Colonel looked up to see the captain had been joined by a messenger. "Priority signal sir. For your eyes only." he said. The Colonel strode over to recieve it. "From Marshal Maximillian" he murmured as he read it. He looked up at the messenger "Inform the Marshal that I'm on my way and should arrive in the next day and a half." The Messenger nodded "Yes sir." he saluted before leaving.

"Vorbeck tell the men to break camp. I want to be on the road in fifteen minutes." The Colonel ordered. Vorbeck nodded and saluted "Yes sir. May I enquire as to our destination?" Colonel Markus Canaris looked him in the eye "South. We are to meet and escort an important dignitary from Nehekhara across the Ikaanan Territories to Drakenhof it looks like our days of boredom are over for now." "The Triumvirate be praised sir!" Vorbeck replied a grin on his face as he returned to the camp. The Colonel read the message again "Indeed. Triumvirate be praised." he murmured to himself.

 

[Bounce]

Elanor jumped back in fright as the masked man descended/fell in front of her. She had become so caught up in her own mind she had forgotten to take due notice of her surroundings. However after a fearful moment it appeared the masked man was not about to attack. She took a closer look at him. He would have been handsome except half of his face was covered by plain white mask which instead made him look somewhat menacing and spooky. However Elanor was not unduly put off.
"Hello" She said uncertainly, unsure what form of greeting would be appropriate for two vampires meeting in a dark forest and it was clear that he was a vampire.
"I'm Elanor." She said with a bright smile. "What are you doing out here?"

 

[Count Darvaleth]

Kraskor was cornered.

All around him, wights wielding cruel blades and axes came closer, armoured in baroque plate and chainmail. A red fire burned in their eyes as they approached, spurned on by the power of necromancy. Kraskor roared, leaping out as they came closer. His blade flashed, cutting two skeletons apart in a single swing, before a counter-blow took the head from a third warrior behind Kraskor. Sweeping around, the Blood Dragon renewed his assault into the horde, his sword smashing bone and breaking metal. The skeletons' numbers diminished, but even as they fell their bodies were reanimated, lurching upwards with broken limbs. This cycle continued for almost an hour, until finally a metal *clang* sounded.

Kraskor shouted in frustration. His sword had shattered, again; his mind was taken back to the closing moments of the Great Battle, the moment his sword broke against Nagash. Discarding the useless blade, Kraskor summoned great balls of red lightning in his hands, and, sweeping them around his head, cleansed the remaining skeletons from the dark chamber. They no longer stood up; Kraskor willed them not to. It had been, after all, his own magic sustaining them in the first place.

It was a poor substitute for real combat training; Undead were, after all, just that. It helped his endurance, no doubt, as he had fought for almost an hour without rest; its main purpose was to train his magical ability, however. That was, after all, what Kraskor was doing in the Land of the Dead. He was learning the arte of magic under Nehklior. Kraskor opened the great iron door that had enclosed him in darkness, stepping out and descending down the stone stairs to the base of the Tower.

Banespike walked out onto the vast surrounding desert, breathing deeply the hot, dusty air. He cast his eyes across the familiar, unadorned landscape, noting the scattered rocks all in their usual places; they can't move, after all.

Except one of the had.

Kraskor squinted, noticing a new shape on the horizon. It wasn't a rock, but a horseman; headed this way. Since Nehekhara had been repopulated by the living, it had become prosperous. Rowhaine and Settra permitted Nehklior's presence here; he had, after all, fought Nagash. But they never wanted anything to do with the vampire Tower; so who was the rider?

Kraskor cursed his lack of weapon; he hadn't thought to grab a new blade as he descended the tower. The Blood Dragon let out a long, guttural howl, summoning a real dragon; although not one with blood still flowing in its veins. What was once Zacharias' Black Dragon, now Kraskor's Bloodclaw, let out an answering howl, rising from behind the tower and coming to rest before the vampire, kicking up a dust cloud as it landed. Kraskor again was reminded of the Great Battle, and felt Zacharias' Soulgem in his pouch, chuckling at the vampire's fate. Kraskor quickly mounted the dragon and spurned it on towards the rider.

It didn't take the dragon long to reach the rider, who had tried to escape as he saw the huge shape approaching him. Bloodclaw flew lower, bringing Kraskor almost level to the rider. The Blood Dragon leapt, crossing the gap and pulling the rider from his horse. The two fell snarling into the dirt as Bloodclaw swooped round, circling the pair before landing. Kraskor finally got a grip on the stranger, pulling back a hood to reveal a dark, tanned face. The man scrabbled to escape.

"Please!" he cried, "I am just a messenger! I bear tidings from Lord Rowhaine! Please let me live!" The man soiled himself in fear as Kraskor laughed, the sound grating, standing and pulling the terrified man to his feet.

"What does the Avatar of Asaph have to say, then?" chuckled Kraskor, to which the main replied by handing him a sealed letter. Kraskor fumbled in his pouch for a coin, and tossed it to the poor man. "Apologies for... well, you know," chuckled Kraskor again, remounting his dragon and heading back to the Tower as the messenger scrabbled back to his horse and galloped away.

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

"Hmm," mused Kraskor, "How very interesting." He had read the letter, and was climbing the tower to bring it to Nehklior. "Master Nehklior!" he called, knocking before entering the library, "A note from Rowhaine. It appears we are to meet him on the border to Slyvania and accompany him to Drakenhof; the Council is reforming!" Kraskor left the note on a table, "I must tell Alastor. He will be down in his cave, no doubt."

Kraskor descended into Alastor's little musical hidey-hole, informing the young vampire of what was happening and instructing him, briefly, to go to Drakenhof. Without a mount, Alastor would only slow Kraskor and Nehklior as they headed to intercept Rowhaine anyway; better that he made his own way direct to the Castle. Kraskor then climbed the tower once again, finding a sword to sharpen as Nehklior prepared to leave.

 

[Mello]

Alastor noticed the woman take a half step back, while the skeletons remained steadfast. Not surprising from either party really. Keeping his arrogant self indulgence hidden, he bowed his head politely,

"And I am Alastor. I have been following you for.. an hour maybe. Merely out of curiosity, don't worry" He added casually.

"You seem to be heading in the direction of where I'm headed, and those skeletons don't look like good protection, so now I'm accompanying you." he said as they set off towards the edge of the forest.

Alastor felt no need to talk to this woman, but he had second guessed that she might be of some import to Kraskor's host, and as such he might gain some respect for escorting her safely to their destination. Alastor chuckled, if she was hostile, she shouldn't be too much trouble by the looks of it, although her magical aura was pretty stifling, whether that made her powerful or not he didn't know..

 

[The Dread King]

Morturion grinned as he read the tattered letter that Rowhaine had sent to him. "So, you want ME to help the council, do you?" he asked the parchment. Well, with the power of necromancy at stake, it would seem as if that was his only option, besides joining the Chaos scum. It had been ten years since his master died, ten years since he was forced to surrender to that abominable council. Yet here he was now, with the power of necromancing dying, being forced to help the council. Morturion sighed. If there was one thing he hated more than the vampire council, it was chaos. A certain chaos power had destroyed Nagash, and the chief disciple had vowed to bring unimaginable misery and pain to Tzeentch, and the other three petty gods, too.
Gazing into the dimension that was his very own soul prison, Morturion closed the portal, and stepped outside his tower. "Legion! Assemble!" A mediocre army of undead surrounded him; in the final battle against Nagash, all of his followers had died and he had to build up a new army. Taking his entire force to the meeting at Drakenhof between a gathering of vampires who would probably only take small escorts could be very...persuasive. Morturion stepped out into the night, making for castle Drakenhof.

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

As he trekked through Sylvania, Morturion pondered on what could be done to stop the fall of necromancy. Certain artefacts had survived the battle of Nagashizzar, of course...and it was in those, and his jars of souls that Morturion placed his hopes of eternal unlife. Wishing to be unseen, Morturion covered his host in a blanked of darkness, and travelled through land that became more infested with vampires the further his army went into it. His knowledge of souls and the energy of life and unlife was unquestioned, his skills in the art of soulwarping unrivalled. He would help the council, yes...but he would make sure that no vampire would stand between him and his revenge on Tzeentch.

 

[Malochai]

Markus and his retinue had been travelling for three days through the densely wooded heart of the Empire, rounding the northern tip of the Middle Mountains and then following well worn paths. The well armed and armoured company had come across many travellers throughout their days, from simple farmers fleeing destroyed homes to ruffians looking for easy pickings, but they had been universally avoided, the peasants moving off the road as quickly as they saw the imposing, golden-armoured rider at the head of his escort of silent soldiers, their faces covered with closed helms and lances held expertly in their gauntleted hands.

Markus grimaced under his mask as they emerged from the eaves of the Dead Wood, a matter of miles from the ruins of Vanholdenschlosse. The sun stung his eyes, and he thanked his forethought in putting on his leather gloves before leaving the sanctity of the forest. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly, he gestured with his right hand and one of the riders broke formation and stopped slightly behind him, still silent.

“We proceed carefully. These are the heartlands of the Triumvirate’s realm; we shall arrive at Castle Drakenhof by nightfall.” With a nod of his head, the soldier turned his horse about and rejoined the ranks. With a hiss of irritation at the necessity of journeying during the day, Markus pressed his heels into his steeds flanks. The stallion snorted, shook his head and started to trot, which quickly morphed into a distance-eating canter.

-----------------------------------------------------------​

Hours passed in boring monotony, and Markus had to suppress an urge to leave his saddle, until they neared Naubonum, with Morr’s Heath not twenty miles away. The procession of horses and riders had kept in a rigid formation, Markus leading, when a column of militiamen, fifty strong, marched towards them along the dirt road they were traversing. They were lead by a rather stout man, who looked to large for his armour, riding a horse that looked like it was withering beneath him. Markus rose his right hand in a fist, and the Under Guard escort halted in practiced unison. The baron waited patiently as the patrol approached, producing a whetstone from one of the pouches on his saddle and started sharpening the sword.

“State your name and intentions in the land of Imperator Carstein!” the captain ordered when he was fifteen paces away, but Markus ignored him, looking at the blade edge in irritation. ‘What did those ancient smiths do to get such a perfectly sharp edge?’ he asked himself.

“I said, state your name and intentions here in the land of Imperator Carstein!” the human repeated. Simultaneously, twenty lances were lowered and the horses, sensing the tension, started snorting and shaking their heads. Markus’ fist shot up again and silence reigned, allowing everyone present to hear him sheath his sword.

“I am Shah al-Hamid, in the lands of Sylvania under the invitation of Imperator Carstein himself. Now, remove yourself from my presence.” The captain and the soldiers he lead must have been intimidated by the voice which emanated from the focus-stealing mask, such intricate detailing rendering it an immense work of art beyond nearly any metal worker alive, for they said nothing, merely looked on in awe, until Markus coughed politely, drawing the patrols’ leaders attention once more.

“I apologise, Herr al-Hamid, but I cannot just allow you to traverse the lands of Imperator Carstein without proof that you are, indeed, here under the invitation of a member of the Triumvirate.” His hand shook slightly as it rested on his swords hilt, and Markus sighed. ‘Fool, trying to impress those he leads with his bravery ...’ With a delicate ease belying his size, the baron put his hands into the unique glove system which allowed him to use the Claws, nudging his steed forward as he did so.

“Your proof is that I have not yet felt the need to kill you. An intruder would not waste his time bandying words when the result would still be a confrontation. Do you understand my logic here, Herr Captain?” he asked, the obvious slur to the man’s rank slipping off of his tongue easily, and a nonplussed look spread over the man’s face. ‘Clearly his education was lacking,’ the baron told himself, shaking his head sadly. His horse was now level with the soldiers, and the razor sharp point of the index ‘finger’ of the right hand Claw was directly over his heart, threaded between the rings of his mail. Blood welled from the shallow wound with the slightest of pressure. “Ride ahead if you wish, to warn Imperator Carstein in person that Shah al-Hamid has responded to his and Rowhaine’s desperate plea for aid. I wonder what reception you’d receive for delaying an honoured guest ...”

The Talabheimer knew he was embellishing on the truth, but if he was right, no-one else would know. Swallowing audibly, the Captain shook his head.

“I - I’m sure that won’t be necessary, milord,” he replied before turning around and gesturing to his troops to move off the road.

“I thought it wouldn’t,” Markus muttered, before pulling his Claw away and riding past serenely as if nothing had happened. His escort followed, and soon they were traversing the Heath, Castle Drakenhof appearing like a spiked finger raised from the cragged earth surrounding it.

Turning back to the Under Guard, Markus smiled behind his mask, until he realised they looked the worse for wear after their travels; hardly the escort befitting someone of his rank. “Like I said, we shall arrive before nightfall. We have two hours; if we pace the horses, we’ll be at Drakenhof town in just under one. You shall then make yourselves presentable and we shall continue on to the Castle proper. Understand?” Twenty heads nodded, and Markus urged his mount on. He was interested to see what could be urgent enough for the Council to be convened ...

 

[Bounce]

"where are you from?" Elanor asked. the masked Alastor said nothing. His face impassive and unreadable. It made Elanor frustrated. She was glad to find someone to travel with but this man was an enigma wrapped in a mystery. She sensed he was likely stronger than her so her best hope lay in making sure he had no reason to hurt her she thought.

"I am from Altdorf." She volunteered hoping that he might comment but he remained silent. His eyed fixed firmly ahead. So she just began chatting randomly about flowers, stars, blood, fall of dwarven strongholds, religion. When she briefly mentioned music he paused and gave her a strange haunted look and was about to say... something but then hurried on.

Elanor sighed and gave up, motioning to her skeletal guard to pick up the pace. Dawn was not far off now and they still had far to go.

 

[Zanos]

Years of training and waiting would finally pay off. Alexander grinned as he thought about it. Though it may have been years ago that his unfortunate accident happened, he was now back, and almost better than ever. It seemed that his Rowhaine, "Champion of the Gods", required assistance, and the so called Imperator Carstein as well. Alexander couldn't think of a snobbier name, though he could probably think up a more interesting one. Truly he had been out of the loop for quite some time for a tragedy like that to happen. No matter, it was time to show his face once more! The thought of a Vampire Council, of truly working together, not against his kind intrigued him, and surely it wouldn't end worse than last time he was around his family. Calling dark magic into life, he once more reanimated his steed as well as his Black Knights, and began the ride to Drakenhof.

About an hour had passed and Alexander mentally commanded his steed and retinue to slow down. He sensed another vampire nearby. Coming alongside her, he saw a noble lady, likely a lahmian, and a meagre skeletal retinue. Nodding at her, he introduced himself. "Milady, I am Alexander von Carstein. I gather from the fact that you are a Vampire such as myself, and from your retinue that you are heading to Castle Drakenhof, the same as I? Might I make the suggestion that we travel together?"

 

[Mello]

A heart wrenching violin melody wrung itself through Alastor's head as he walked, its emotion and despair swallowed everything up in his mind, he was only dimly aware of the Lahmian talking to him let alone that they had left the forest and were now crossing the rolling fields of Sylvania, inching closer towards his home by the minute. The organ had lain silent for years now, and he could almost feel it calling to him. Sighing inside, he made a mental note to try and invite Kraskor round after they had done whatever going to Drakenhof required them to do, on the return journey. Maybe his 'master', although he still hated the term, might come round to enjoying some of his music, rather than the simple rubbish he listened to now. He doubted whatever the Lahmian was saying was important anyway, he had nearly finished this melody. Some rubato there..

"...music..."

Alastor ignored her, and mentally noted down the melody he had just finished, it might be suitable. He paused mid-stride, his mind coming to terms with reality. Turning to his companion his face darkened with interest. Even his voice gained more bass and grittiness

"Music. What do you know of mu-"

his ears pricked, and already Alastor was tensing his muscles, ready to move, he felt his body preparing. After a couple of seconds a figure emerged out of the gloom. It presented itself as another vampire on a steed. Instinctively Alastor panicked, and dissipated quietly, appearing 10 meters behind the newcomer's entourage. The newcomer then greeted the Lahmian casually, as if for some reason vampires with small armies casually meet in the middle of nowhere all the time. That last jump had been too far, and Alastor felt himself tear up on the inside, like he was split between this place and the last, hissing in pain he sank to one knee. Thankfully he recovered fast and completed the distance back in a series of three jumps, all in the space of a second. The shimmer in the air was all the warning the pair got as Alastor re-appeared with a blast of wind.

Calmly, he brushed his hair back over his ears.

"Apologies, Elanor. We should get moving again." he said, eyeing the von Carstein suspiciously for a moment, then treating him with the same indifference as he did to everyone he 'knew'.

"You were talking about music. Tell me.. What do you think of it?" he said, perhaps betraying his enthusiasm a little to the Lahmian, who were brilliant at this conversation stuff, so she probably picked it up.

 

[Get of W'soran]

Nekhlior was reading "The Pale Tome", one of the arcane tomes that had belonged to V'azrin that Nekhlior had taken after his brothers death.
As the door slammed shut after Kraskor left the Necrarch glanced up in confusion having not noticed the other vampire.

"Reshorn? Kraskor?" he called out looking around the large library.

The ancient vampire continued looking around until he noticed the letter on the nearby table, lifting the letter he read it and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.
In over 4,500 years of undeath the vampire had made few positive relationships but his former student Lesa had been one.
And Rowhaine was one of the only surviving connections to her that Nekhlior knew of.
Besides his current existance was a mystery that Nekhlior wished to understand better. He wondered if Rowhaine would allow him to run some tests.

The vampire looked up again noticing the Library still seemed otherwise empty.
"Katie? Err Al..." Nekhlior began before realising he couldn't remember the young vampire's name.

There where too many vampires in his tower. There had NEVER been this many vampires in his tower.
Usually there was Nekhlior then the mindless undead...undead where so much easier to work with when they where bound to ones will.

Nekhlior looked down at his letter again suddenly refocusing his scattered thoughts on it, striding out of the Library he climbed the stairs to the personal quarters in the upper rooms, once there he called out.
"Kraskor! There's a letter! We're going to Sylvania!"

Assuming this was explanation enough he went to his rooms to gather what he would need.

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

Captain Dieter withdrew his greatsword from the Assassin's chest with a snarl.

The vampiric assassin's remains where already beginning to turn to ash as Dieter wiped the dark blood of his blade.

The attacks had become more frequent lately.
Dieter glared hatefully at the remains and wondered if not for the first time did the traitorous scum know something that his von Carstein masters did not know.

"Captain" a voice called.

Dieter turned to see a vampire in the same plate uniform as he himself was wearing, the garb of the Regent's Guard.

"Heinrich, what is it?"

"Karl commands that we attend him at once in preparation for the arrival of the Triumvirate's guests"

Dieter nodded.

"We've cleared this den out anyway, gather the men so we can return to the capital."

 

[Bounce]

"I would be most gracious if you would accompany me kind sir." Elanor said with a slight curtsy, impressed by the vampires polite and courtly manner. Not to mention his considerably impressive retinue. It seemed this gathering was one of considerable powers and she began to wonder if it being near such a largwe group of powerful being was wise or incredibly foolish. Still it was too late now to have doubts. She gestured to her skeletons to fall in beside this Alexander von Carstein, the name alone seemed heavily potent with history.
"I assume you received the same message as I did. Do you know anything more about this Rowhaine character and what he wants from us?"

Suddenly Alastor reappeared as if from nowhere and Elanor tried to appear unconcerned not wanting to look easily intimidated in front of this other vampire lord.
"Um, Alexander this is Alastor." She said.
"I know a little about music." She said happy to find a subject upon which the other vampire seemed interested.
"While I was in Lothern with the High Elves I learnt how to play the harp but I was nothing compared to them. I could sit all day just listening to them singing, their melodies just beyond words, they describe feelings and emotions as if reaching deep inside you, plucking at your soul. Beauty and sorrow intermingled. It is quite marvellous. Do you play?"

 

[Mello]

Alastor half-nodded at the von Carstein, trying to stop his ego from being any more rubbed up than a von Carstein usually is

"Elves, indeed they are commendable for their music so I hear. I must go and find one some day.." his voice trailed off unsettlingly, it didn't sound like the first elf Alastor met would be enjoying himself for much longer.

"I do indeed play, but sadly I do not feel it does justice for the music that I think of in my head. I am a composer mainly, and I try to do justice for my work as best I can. For me, music is the.. freedom to express what I cannot in words and expressions. It frees my conscience of what I have to burden" Alastor's emotional barriers collapsed a little and the pain of his past shone through for a second. "... if only for a moment. Perhaps you'd be interested..." he said hopefully, rummaging around in his pockets, "in telling me what you thought of this. The people I usually ah.. live with aren't hugely appreciative of music sadly."

 

[Bounce]

"Ah yes the elves are wonderful." Elanor said with a fond smile, not really noticing the malevolence in Alasot's voice towards them. "But I can never go back there." She said sadly.
"Indeed music is beyond words, it is the essence of something greater, something more pure and any attempt to describe it will always be flawed. I have heard of some musicians who believe that music should not even be played only written for to hear it would be to sully it but I do not like that idea at all."
Elanor took the parchment from Alastor. It was scribbled with ink, like a mad man the notes ran helter skelter across the page, making it difficult to comprehendbut even still Elanor could see a deep sadness within, haunting in its grief.
"It looks very ...intriguing." She said at last. "I would like to hear you play sometime."

 

[Mello]

Alastor jumped a little inside. Someone actually wanted to hear his music? The request seemed genuine enough, but it could be a trap. Why would it be a trap, just kill him now surely? Did they want the organ maybe? Alastor stopped his thoughts from running away, and took a deep breath in.. and out. Trying to contain his excitement and fear he smiled.

"Then after this is done, perhaps you would like to accompany back to my home, my organ resides there. I hope I can do justice to what I feel to convey, maybe you could tell me.

I feel the musicians who feel music should not be performed are just ignorant or can't compose. Music is created to be expressed, not to be confined to pen and paper."
ing
Alastor felt he owed this woman something now, so tried to keep the conversation going, although he always struggled with things like this. He often offended people without realising it. Not that he normally cared, but this woman actually wanted to listen to some of his mucis.

".. so what do you do as a hobby then. With all the time we all have to spend, surely you have something you do?"

 

[Bounce]

Elanor smiled. Once you better understood what drove someone it was far easier to predict them and manipulate them if required. Although hopefully it wouldn't be. She could sense the loneliness from this masked vampire and it echoed within herself. Could he be a potential ally? Or even more importantly a friend? No, surely not, men had proved to her again and again that they were not to be trusted. Their fair words and pomises were just a thin charade for sexual desire and she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't fall for that again.

"That would be lovely. The organ is such a stunning instrument. Do you have a very big one?" She replied cheerfully. "Although I fear this business could take some time."

She saw his rough attempts to engage in conversation and felt relived. it was good to know she wasn't the only one feeling awkward and insecure.

"I spend a lot of times going to parties, balls, masquerades and the like. They are ...fun. Otherwise I like to read books, tend my colony of bats, work on my magic. So much time and so little to do really. It is a relief to be able to finally get out and do something different, something extraordinary. You know."

 

[the hidden one]

Igor approached the band stealthily. His cloak making him completely invisible, not that he needed to be, the three people were so engrossed in their conversation, he could have walked up behind one of them and slit their throat, which he would have done earlier, if it had not been for the band of skeletons hovering around the woman. He began to assess their weak points, the throat, the underarm, and the spine, when he realized that the woman must be a lahmian vampire, and that no blood dragon would be in the presence of such magic and ranged weapons without being infuriated beyond belief. He took a silent breath in, these were probably just a lahmian and her thralls. Just as he had come to that conclusion. Another odd thing happened, well, no odder than three vampires alone in the middle of a forest, but odd nonetheless. The man with a half mask had just teleported. He was now standing three feet closer to him. This must be a very powerful vampire to teleport like that, which was greatly coveted by him. Now Igor was intrigued, he backed away to climb silently up a tree so he could see the whole band and realized that the three were not alone. A formidable retuine surrounded the third vampire, but he was simply looking at the other two. It was clear that he was not really part of this conversation, just listening in on theirs. He called his horse over to him, and whispered a spell that would make him move silently and make him go jet black. He felt the effort drain him, almost falling out of the tree. The magic had never been his specialty, but it would definitely do him good to learn more. He prepared for a long night waiting.