| Acharya stared as the vampire spoke. He wore robes of black over a dyed black Tracker uniform. Boots laced up to his knees, and the extreme lack of color offset the pallor of his sunken features. Acharya's blue eyes were filled with hate as Varesh rambled. "That leash you managed to put on me, the Sun-Chylde snapped it." Varesh had been answering Acharya's questions - patiently, he felt - for the better part of an hour. Acharya knew better than to take all of it for truth. "So, now I hold the power to be in charge." He grinned arrogantly, as if he'd already won. "You are here to challenge me?" Disbelief and disgust carried thickly in Acharya's voice. He knew that the urge to rip Varesh's throat out only half belonged to him. "No, I am here to beat you. To become Torankhayel's new champion, since you've done such a wonderful job. Suicides are up, the world is in shambles, there's a rebellion brewing right beneath your nose, and you haven't noticed a thing." He laughed when Acharya raised an eyebrow. "And yes, I know that to be true. I'm smarter than I act, great teacher," Varesh spat. He smiled as rage burned brightly in the Acharya's eyes. He began to speak again, to call the man "fool" for fighting against his own nature so stubbornly, but a small noise from beyond the door caught his ear. The air charged and the scent of familiarity filled his nostrils. "Puppet," Varesh grinned as Felanya stepped past the threshold. "At least now you're aware that you are not in control." He glanced at the two long knives she wore around her waist. "Or maybe you're still struggling with that." "But, you're dead," she sputtered. She had changed clothes, wearing something resembling a dress, long and gray. It would not have surprised any of the Magi that knew her, even casually, if the long sleeves concealed still more blades. "Quite right, my dear." Varesh stepped towards her, crossing the few feet that separated them easily. "Many thanks to you. However you managed to hold me in check all those years ago, I'll never understand. You poor, weak... woman." He laughed, circling her. "There is so much fear in you now. Being aware is awful, isn't it?" He paused just long enough to clear some of her long hair away from her neck. "Don't touch me," Felanya stepped away quickly. She knew better than to look to Acharya for any help, so her eyes only drifted around the room. "You're... tainted." Her lips twisted. The air tasted foul around Varesh. The darkness in him was more concentrated than it had ever been in any of the other Magi, even Acharya. Or maybe she had simply failed to notice these things. She didn't particularly want to guess how much in the shadow Acharya stood. "You speak of what courses through my veins?" Varesh smiled once Felanya had nodded. He directed another grin at the Acharya before turning his attention back to the woman. "Dear mistress," he spat. "My blood is not tainted." In a blur of motion he covered the distance to Felanya once more, and took the knives from her sides. One was almost a sword, ornately decorated with etchings of a dragon on the blade. The other was too small to be a simple knife, not long enough to be anything special. It was plain but strong, meant only for defense. Felanya's eyes widened. Having her primary weapons taken from her so easily unnerved her. Varesh looked at each knife, then to the Acharya. "How you love your poisons," He threw the longer knife to the ground, plunging the other into his right forearm. He twisted the blade before pulling it free. Shadow poured from the wound, hanging in the air like thick, acrid smoke. "My blood is not tainted," he repeated. "My blood is taint." Varesh let the second knife fall to the floor. His "blood" slid off of the blade, working its way into the cracks of the floor with something like a will of its own. "Be afraid, Acharya. Be very afraid," Varesh smirked at the slight fear evident in the leader's eyes - fear that he would never admit to. There was more irritation and impatience than fear present in any event. "I've always wanted to say that." "Get to the point, Varesh." "Please, stop calling me that. Vincent, Vincent is who I am. The point..." His broad smile caused Felanya to take a step back. "There is no point. Only this: your time as God is done, Acharya. How do I depose you, since you cling so to ceremony and formality?" "We fight for the power. To the death." Acharya moved away from Tahdisha's cage, stepping closer to the vampire. "There must be witnesses." His tone was flat; he was not happy. "Well and good," Vincent nodded. "I wouldn't want this biased little wretch to be the only witness anyways. Fine. You name when, where, and how we fight. Then we meet, and I'll take your power, meager it may be." He held his left hand over the wound on his arm for a moment. When he took his hand away, the wound was completely gone. The smoke-like essence that hung into the air gathered fiercely around Vincent, then faded into his skin as if absorbed. "You can't do that," Felanya stuttered, her eyes wide. None of her memories of the monster in front of her included him healing himself. "My lady," he made it an insult. "It would simply amaze you what the dark can do." Vincent smiled once more, gave a slight, condescending bow to the Acharya, and strutted away. Felanya simply stared at the Acharya for an instant, forgetting the reason she had come to this chamber to begin with. "How is he here?" That was the only thing that came to her mind. "Apparently he didn't die." Irritation was becoming a constant in his voice. "But I heard his neck snap. I saw his head twisted around, you felt the link broken," she began to babble. "Exactly, I felt the link break. That was the only thing you could have heard snap. And did none of you think to get close enough to him to see through an illusion?" "Dalnek kicked him several times," she began to argue. "That means nothing. He's over a thousand years old, woman! Did you just completely forget he was a vampire?" Acharya made a frustrated growl in the back of his throat. "Even before being awake, you were still so..." he paused. "Human?" Felanya offered. "Fallible," he corrected. "Frail. Not always the same as human," Acharya added. Silence stretched briefly. "What did you come here for?" His face had become unreadable; nothing good was going to come of Vincent's reappearance. "I was going to leave," she explained, picking up the knife Vincent had used. It was spotless, but some of the blade had been corroded away. "Past tense. What changed?" Felanya looked up at the Acharya, still kneeling. There was a look in her eyes he almost recognized. Almost simple determination, but nothing was ever simple anymore. "He can't be this world's god." She straightened, turning the blade over in her hands. "If you remain in control, there's hope for the world yet." "You are a fool." "And you have no faith." She shook her head sadly. "Acharya has no faith," she corrected herself. Turning on her heels, she stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the hall. Acharya turned back to his phoenix, his mind already straining to compile a list of the vampire's weaknesses. As a vampire, ancient by this world's standards, there wouldn't be many. Still, there had to be something Acharya could use... Vincent heard the weak woman striding through the halls somewhere behind him. No doubt to find some way to "change the world, make it better," or some such nonsense. If she were completely different, still standing comfortably in the shadow, she could have been likeable. As it was now, she was too righteous, worse than she had been before facing the Rift. She wasn't a threat, as of now, only an annoyance. If not paid attention to, she could easily become a threat. Felanya might have to die. It was an idea to be mused over later. For the moment, someone was in terrible pain, and Vincent was drawn to it. The scent of suffering wafted through the halls, diffusing into the air in a pattern that the vampire could have followed with his eyes closed. This area of the tower could have been called a dungeon. Agony was not an anomaly here, but this was singular. Most people -Magi, Vincent corrected himself in his mind. Magi were not people. Most Magi that were thrown in these chambers were the ones that had begun losing to their Jihann, losing to the "darkness" as their will to live faded. The will fighting against this pain made the scent unique. It intrigued Vincent. He closed his eyes, stopping just before the door where the scent had led him. Instinctively, Vincent knew that a man was fighting against the pain, struggling to live, and was ruthless. Vincent knew it only instinctively though, as his powers of reasoning and analysis were lacking. "Why were you poisoned?" His eyes held shut, Vincent stepped into the room. It smelled small, scents bounced too easily off of their boundaries. The question held all the innocence of a child inquiring about the colour of the sky. The man didn't answer. His head hung forward, his hair covered his face. It took Vincent an instant to recognize Sylvae, "The Worst" of the Magi. "I'm sure you've heard the 'I can save you' speech before. The Acharya always was long-winded and overly philosophical. But something in you wants to survive, at any cost. You wish to live badly enough that you would bow down and serve even me. You called me weak, once, and for that, I will make this painful. But you will live, in a manner of speaking." Vincent squatted in front of the patchwork man, avoiding the pools of vomit. "I wonder which poison they put in you. Years ago, Felanya and I made most of the contagions that coat the Tracker weapons. Those days were fun," he sighed. He pulled one of the shackles free of the wall. Pushing back the sleeve of Sylvae's black robe, he looked carefully at Sylvae's left wrist. The lighting was poor - nearly nonexistent - but it was sufficient. "Acharya did an awful job of putting you back together. Look at all of those scars. What a shame," he sank his teeth into Sylvae's arm, tasting poison, pain, fear, defiance and blood all together. He took only a couple of swallows, letting his system identify and break down the poison entering his system. "You must have been very bad. Perfect." Sylvae's wrist kept bleeding. Vincent ran the tip of his right index finger over one of his fangs, opening a new wound on his skin. He held it just above the punctures on Sylvae's wrist. They looked more like savage lacerations than puncture wounds, but old descriptions had been embedded into his brain, and there they stayed. The shadowy essence seeping out of his fingertip pooled into the wounds on Sylvae's wrist. The patchwork man raised his head, his eyelids drooping. "Either you'll thank me, or curse me, come tomorrow. One way or the other, you are mine now." Vincent pulled his fingertip away after several long seconds, and watched the last bits of shadow seep in and pull the wounds shut behind them, like politely closing a door. "Stay away from the window, come morning." Vincent stood, wiping dust off of his robes. He smiled to himself, walking out into the hallway and humming softly. Sylvae's screams echoed through the tower for hours to come. |