(Collaborating with HiddenHaven )
A bolt of sable lightning shot across the night sky, with such velocity that shattered the clouds into shapeless mist in its wake. Those with the skills to read winds, perhaps Vílas or Anemoses, would not mistake an unusual current that coursed defiantly to the east. And if they are blessed with keen eyes, it will be revealed to them that it was not nature's wrath that stirred up such turbulence, but a man.
The man spread his wings far and wide, stretching the immaterial wing fingers, the amorphous patagia to their limits. Clouds yielded before the pair of umbral flames, moonlight cast no reflection on their nox black and sanguine red. Their strength alone defied the law of gravity. With one powerful thrust, the man soared higher. Wind tousled his locks of shadow, carrying an exultant cry to the distant mountains and forests. How he missed this! To ride the night wind, to surf the clouds, to reach for the stars, and to gaze upon the land from the heaven's view.
Alas, he cannot indulge in this short-lived freedom. He was on a mission. The former park ranger’s dream, though lacking precision, did point to a general direction. From his advantageous height, the man spied a flickering light, a sign of human habitation. It was about time. In one dramatic yet graceful motion, he folded his wings, surrendering momentarily to the grip of gravity. The wind whipped against his face, but his eyes never wavered an inch from his mark. The distant glimmers drew closer and closer, and eventually solidified into recognisable shapes of roads and houses. The shadowy wings unfurled once more, ensuring his safe and silent landing atop of the village's vantage point, the church tower.
Finn Norwood's vision had led him halfway between his old and new home. In his time, this land was known as the Kingdom of Bohemia. And the famous sobriquet of his and his father's was owning to the chivalric order founded by a king of this land, who also held the Emperor title of the, 'in no way holy, nor Roman, nor an empire' , Holy Roman Empire.
Before coming to this village, the man had tried his luck in three more places. His waning patience did not bode well for the former park ranger. The man crouched down, melding seamlessly with the cloak of night. There was a rustle, followed by the faintest flutter of wings. Two creatures, a rat and a bat, found their ways to the man’s shoulders. For countless generations, these diminutive beings have been living and evolving alongside humanity. They knew many secrets. After all, who would hide truth from a crevice in their houses? Or a narrow gap leading up to the attic?
In hushed tones, the two creatures of the night spoke of the village's old woodcutter, whose lineage could be traced back to before the first house of the village was erected. Legend had it his ancestor was not born of a woman's belly but of a hollowed tree trunk. In his better days, the woodcutters knew the woods like the back of his hand. Whatever can be named in the forest, he can produce it for you. Now, the old widower withered his days in the only bar in town, mumbling his ale-soaked tales that passed down from his great grandfather. Tales of Jezinkas and their flute and arrows, of a pale-eyed wizard, and a deserted mansion haunted by a woman in white.
"Does he speak the truth? Have either of you seen things in the woodcutter’s tale?" The question elicited an eager chirp from the bat.
"And you know where the woods is?" There was another positive chirp.
"Very well, lead on." The bat heeded his command as the rat stealthily vanished into the shadows.
With a forceful blast of his wings, the man was lifted into the air, swiftly leaving the village's border behind. The little bat fell victim to the whirlwind created by the twin umbral flame. It tumbled, fluttered its wings to regain balance, then cried out a high-pitched shriek that demanded attention. Reluctantly, the man slowed his pace and waited for the little bat to catch up. The tiny creature circled around him, screeching in protest.
"Fine, you may ride on my shoulder."
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The shock wave of the man’s landing swept across the forest floor, swallowing every single nocturnal sound in its wake. The man shifted his shoulders, the pair of dragon wings dispelled, as if the night had reclaimed its bestowed gift. The burning ember of his eyes pierced the darkness. There were trees, and nothing more, no sign of human presence, no stone pavement, and certainly no mansion in sight.
"Well, where is it?" With a faint rustle, a small head popped out of the chaos of the man's black mane, two beady eyes flickered in confusion.
"What do you mean by what do I mean? Where is the mansion?" The question prompted another squeak of bewilderment.
"So, you have never seen a mansion?" Frustration was clearly palpable in the man's voice. He reached for the little ball of darkness on his shoulder, bringing it to his eye-level, and squeezed a high-pitched screech out of its tiny lungs.
"Oh, what? I never asked about the mansion? I asked 'Have you seen things in the woodcutter's tale?', which includes a haunted mansion! Fine, then, what have you seen?" The creature wriggled within the man's grasp, emitting a flurry of chirps and screeches.
The man's brow knotted. "Jezinkas? You mean Dryads? You have seen Dryads in the woods? It's like you have seen fishes in the water, birds in the sky, and Americans in McDonald's!" The bat flinched, its eyes wide like a puppy's, its tongue clicked, whimpering another squeak.
"Yes, they also have a penchant for Taco Bell and Chick-fil-A...But that's not the point!" The man let out an irritated groan. "So a Voivode of Wallachia is not enough for a Holy Roman little bat? Fine then, I shall trouble you no more, sire. Shoo, get lost! I need more capable servants!"
The man's grip loosened, but instead of flying away, the little creature of the night huddled up in the man's pale palm, two faint clicks escaping its mini-mouth.
"Now what! You are tired, and afraid of the dark? By all things dark and scary, you are a BAT! And I'm the one who flew all the way from the village to this middle-of-nowhere place! You didn't even flap a wing!!!" The man fought the urge to just clench his fingers around the ball of black fur. "Ahhhh, fine! Get in there, I'll deal with you later."
With an exasperated sigh, the man shoved the little ball of darkness into the chest pocket of his jacket. Turning towards the moon, he took in a long deep breath of the crisp cool air, before releasing a howl into the stillness of the night.
The woods burst back to life with a symphony of sounds. The patters of small paws, the thunderous footfalls of larger creatures, the gentle flutter of wings, and a cacophony of howls, hisses, and squeaks. Through the shifting shadows, his senses merged with the multitude of creatures around him. He was the green eyes that lurked in the dark, he was the wings that glided through the wind, he was the tiny feet that navigated every nook and cranny.
Suddenly, there was a yelp, a howl of pain that pierced the night followed by a sharp pain that pierced his shoulder. Now what! The man mumbled an audible curse, snapping his head towards the direction of the distressing noise. Whatever caused the commotion this time, the man swore he will punch it in the face before any questions were asked.
With the grace of a predator and the speed of the wind, he glided through the darkness, his steps soundless as the very shadow he traversed. His eyes, keen and sharp, cut through the woodland obscurity. As he drew closer to the disturbance, more details were revealed to him. It was a wolf, lying on the ground in a strange stance, with its back twisted and its legs flailing in a desperate attempt of escape. No, it wasn't lying down, it was being pinned down! The man slowed his pace, he saw a shadow hunching over the wolf, a solid black mass that defied his night vision. What was it? He forwarded another silent step, hoping for a better view. The shadow moved, perhaps being startled, in the most deliberate manner possible, slowly raising from the wolf like a spectre raising from its grave. A breeze unveiled the curtain of clouds, the moon cast down a pale beam that spotlighted the figure, leaving no room for doubt of what he saw. A woman, her face as white as snow, her hair as dark as ebony, her lips were the crimson of blood, and her eyes were the starlight of moonless winter.
'No, it cannot be...' The man froze, locking in an intense staring contest that seemed to stretch into eternity. The two icy blue daggers struck lightning into his and the common belief of all. 'There is none other!' The man whispered, quickly forming a new plan, one that doesn't involve punches in the face. Taking another step forward, he raised a hand, a 'hello' was on the tip of his tongue. An arrow sliced through the night air, embedding itself in the ground just in front of his foot.
The shadow turned and fled into the inky depth of the forest.
"Wait!" The man shouted, kicking the arrow aside and launching into pursuit.
The figure dashed from tree to tree, becoming one with shadows, as if she alone commanded their umbral protection. "Wait!" The man attempted another call for attention. "Stop, I mean you no harm!" But his words fell on deaf ears, met only by the figure's quickening pace. The forest seemed to close in around him, roots winding like snakes under his feet, trees moving around to block his vision. Branches reaching out like phantom hands to snag at his clothes, arrows whizzing dangerously close pass his hair. Yet, a strange familiarity began to settle in. He recognised a tree with twisted trunk, evenly-hewn stones covered by moss, statues underneath the veil of ivy vines. This was the place from Finn Norwood's vision!
Enough time had been wasted in this hide-and-seek game, the man thought. A powerful thrust of his wings sent him forward, rapidly closing the distance between him and his mark. Yet his victory was thwarted by something slithered up his leg, a stealthy assailant that sent him tumbling off balance. The fleeting shadow seized this opportunity, she fled past the stone wall, made it into the safety of the mansion.
With a swift twist of his body, the man managed to land on both feet and a hand. If frustration had been his previous emotion, it had now ignited into a fiery anger.
More vines, creeping from every dark corner of the forest, shot towards him. Undaunted, the man turned his head aside as an arrow narrowly missed its target. Three more followed in quick succession, only to be deftly deflected by a pair of incorporeal wings swelled from the man's back.
The vines launched their second wave of attack, this time, in the form of a net. Torrents of arrows rained down on the intruder, forcing him into its snare. With lightning reflexes, the man seized one of the arrows mid-flight and sent it hurtling back, resulting in a sudden gasp followed by a thud beneath the dense canopy. The net closed its clutch, but it stood no chance against the man’s iron claws. He torn through the defiant vegetation, torn everything in his way asunder until a thick vine fell in his grasp. He wrapped the vine around his arm, with a forceful yank, a flash of green shot from a nearby bush, shrieking as it thumped against the forest floor.
"Lord Vlad of the Court of Miracles! Please, hear me out!" The green entity cried in a woman's voice, as the man's icy grip tightened around her throat, the tips of his claws were only inches away from her skin.
"Dryad!" The man hissed, anger fuelled the burning coals of his eyes. "You shot arrows at me, sent vines to bind me, yet you ask me to hear you out?"
"Please, lord Vlad, we are only defending ourselves."
"Against whom? Me? Dryad, you recognised me, then you should know better that I have no quarrel with your kind!"
"Yet you walk within our borders, do you not?" The Dryad, though was on her knees, met Vlad's crimson gaze with her own unyielding yellow-green glows.
"What is your name, Dryad?" The man's tone softened, a lopsided smile acknowledging the tree spirit’s courage.
"Vyrýneth, my lord." Answered the Dryad.
"Brave maiden suits you far better than green maiden. Let me ask this of you, Vyrýneth. Who lives beyond those walls?" Pointing an accusatory finger towards the mansion, Vlad seized the Dryad again with the searing intensity of his red eyes.
"What, what do you mean?"
"Do not play games with me, Dryad!" Leaning closer, the man firmly gripped the green woman's chin and turned her face towards the decrepit wall. "Who lives in the mansion?"
The light in Vyrýneth's eyes wavered. She winced as Vlad's fingernails dug into her skin, drawing trickles of clear green sap down her neck. Her life, or the life of her physical form to be specific, was hanging on the fingertips of the vampire king. The Dryad knew she must be careful with her answer, she needed something convincing...and nothing is more convincing than the truth...
"A...a friend." Vyrýneth stammered. A plan began to settle in. Perhaps truth will benefit them all.
"A vampire!"
"No, my lord!"
"Dryad!" Vlad's voice grew colder. His demeanour betrayed no emotion, yet his mere presence was the deep winter that froze air and hearts. "I was there seventy-three years ago when the Accord of the Nine was made. I pledged my name alongside your Lady Anávyre and your High Lady Gu'yvellath. The Eclipsed is now under our own rule and protection. Yet you dare to ensnare one of my own, and deny my rightful claim?"
"My lord, our lady Anávyre is no more..." The Dryad pushed and clawed, struggling to free herself from the man's grasp. Surprisingly, he did let go. "We are no longer bound by her decree." She wheezed her reply between coughs. "Yet, we still honour hers and our High Lady's will. Your accusation is not true, lord of the Eclipsed. The one lives beyond these walls is not yours to claim."
"Do not lie to me, Dryad!" Vlad hissed, a low growl rumbling in his throat, fangs bared. It wasn't necessary a demonstration of anger. Rather, the conversation need to be 'pushed' forward, wasn't it? "I saw her with my own eyes! I saw what she did to my wolf! I saw her fangs and blood-stained lips!"
"Lord of the Eclipsed, then you should know better that there is blood far older and powerful than yours."
"Liar! I know this blood you speak of, every single one of them! They all cowered under their dark lady's obsidian shell. There is none other!"
"Have you seen her eyes?"
Vlad fell silent, he felt gazes, an invisible weight pressing on his back. Across the courtyard, two figures were huddling together. One, a featureless dark silhouette, was rocking back and forth. Ebbs and flows of shadows formed unnameable shapes around her. The other, an embodiment of a flowering tree, another Dryad no doubt, cradled the silhouette in the protection of her arms. This sight alone could be the confirmation he needed. Vlad knew if the Dryads are sane enough and value their lives, they wouldn’t dare lie in that matter. But can one be blamed for being cautious?
"Let me speak with her." Vlad advanced one more request.
"We cannot...please understand my lord." There was a rustle from the Dryad's leafy hair as her body trembled. Vyrýneth implored with a dry and tight voice. Things had gotten a little bit out of control. "She may resides in our woods, but it is her territory beyond those walls, even we do not go inside."
"Then I will!"
Vyrýneth closed her eyes. That was it, that was as far as their agreement goes. She could step aside, allow the vampire king's passage, and be absolved of any blame at this point. After all, there was only so much they can do. But then what? Their little raven getting hurt was not part of her plan, not even the possibility of it. She still had one last card to play.
The green woman extended her arm towards the mansion and declared with unwavering resolution.
"We cannot fight you, Lord Vlad of the Eclipsed, but if you go in there, you know to whom you shall answer."
Narrowing his eyes, the vampire king mentally offered a round of applause to the Dryad. She had the guts to threat him. The green maiden should consider herself lucky that he was here for an answer, not a fight. With a final long glance at the mansion, its mysterious resident and the Dryad guardians, Vlad said nothing more and turned on his heel. As the mansion faded from his sight, he uttered a whisper. "Hey, you there?" A little head peeked out from Vlad's pocket. "Here's your chance, little one. I need you to glue your eyes on this mansion, and the thing...girl who lives here. Don't mess up this time!"
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Though limping, a shadow of ashen grey and maple brown dashed toward the green Dryad with speed and precision. The ashen silhouette helped Vyrýneth to her feet, the orange orbs of her eyes though, locked her sister in an ominous glare.
"I know what you are going to say, Déylveleth. 'Why did you do that?'" Vyrýneth nervously combed through the many willow branches that formed her hair. "But what else could I have done? He's the vampire king! Not some nosy park ranger. If I bluntly told him: no, my lord, it's one of our peculiar sisters who lives in the mansion. Though she looks like a vampire, behave like a vampire, she is definitely not a vampire, she is a Dryad. See what will happen?"
"HE won't be happy." Déylveleth, the Dryad with a mane of maple leaves, said bluntly. Her statement mirrored her nature, short and straight.
"Neither am I!" Retorted Vyrýneth. "By Ky'omáthar (Mother of Trees), there was a time when the folks behind the stone walls understood that the forest is not their living room!"
"No, I mean HIM."
"Oh yes, HIM..." The green Dryad gritted her teeth. "We had an agreement, nothing more, nothing less. We never give him our word. If he did care that much, maybe he shouldn’t have left. The world has changed, sister. How many of us are being cut down each day? How many have been forced back to the realm of Twilight? We all knew this day will come, sooner or later. And I am certain he knew that as well."
"There will be consequences."
"Everything has its consequence, sister. But before they catch up to me, let’s check on our little raven."
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Alinna plucked idly on her golden lyre of Uruk. The grand piano and the lyre served more as ornate decorations than sources of musical enjoyment in her suite. Adjacent to the lyre was a chaise longue, its velvety cushions cradled an overturned copy of "The Prince" by Machiavelli.
Night wind wafted through one of the open French doors, carrying with it the refreshing coolness that swirled across the room. The thin curtains swayed to the rhythm of the breeze, casting pale reflections on the polished obsidian floor. Joel stood in front of the fireplace, battling silently against the temptation of touching the masterfully crafted model ships. Though the human journalist suspected that the mistress of the castle possessed an even more extended collection, only three of them were displayed on the mantelpiece. The first of them was a scaled-down replica of a 13th or 14th century warship. The second one's origin was obscured. Joel thought he recognised the model's peculiar sails from the Dorven vessels that frequent the docks of the Sanctuary, but its bits and pieces didn't quite fit the dark elves' craftsmanship. The third however, in the form of a space Gothic fortress, bore the distinctive aesthetic of the Warhammer universe. Joel knew it to be one of the Gloriana-class battleships, but couldn't pinpoint which specific one, as he's not familiar with the fandom.
Tearing his interest away from the models, Joel desperately searched for a new target to direct his overflowing curiosity. Not the wine shelf, not the paintings on the wall, not the replica of Anduril...Then, a glint of gold caught his attention, leading his gaze towards the overturned tome on the chaise longue.
"Hey boss, why do you read the work of Mr 'teacher of evil'?"
"Who?" Alinna, whose thoughts were abruptly interrupted, gave Joel a quizzical look, then followed the direction of his downward-pointing finger to the book. "You mean Niccolò Machiavelli? What makes you call him like that, Mr Haddson?"
"Not me, boss, Leo Strauss gave him that name." Joel shrugged. "But I do believe Machiavelli had some pretty disturbing ideas about how to run a country."
"I see where does it come from, Mr Haddson." The dark-haired lady nodded thoughtfully, her finger played another note from the lyre. "Tell me, if Machiavelli did mentor so much evil as you and many others claimed, why was he laid to rest in the 'Temple of Italian Glories'?"
"Firstly, boss, it's the other way round. Santa Croce earned that honorific from the many great minds who were enshrined in its sanctum. Secondly, a man’s place among the dead doesn’t necessarily warrant his reputation among the living." The human countered, his up-lifted chin evidenced the pride he took in that argument.
"In fact it does, Mr Haddson. Humanity only remembers things that are worthy remembering. The dead have always been held in higher esteem than the living, for they tell no tale, only truth."
"That’s poetic and deep, boss, I give you credit for that." Joel responded with a funny face. "So, what is your take on Machiavelli?"
"I don't think he mentored tyrants, Mr Haddson. He did what almost every nameable figure of Renaissance did. He killed gods."
Joel cocked his head in curiosity, he knew he will never be disappointed by the dark lady's opinions.
"He killed the godhood in power." Alinna continued, turning her gaze towards the distant horizon. "He stripped it of its false holiness and righteousness, he shoved it off its pedestal and made it available to the common majority. Won't you say it is a wonderful thing?"
"How did he do that, boss?".
"He put pen to paper."
"Only that?"
"Mr Haddson, you of all people should know the power of words. History is written by those who wrote things down. There are times I do wonder how I will appear in the record. Alinna the evil, Alinna the fool. Alinna the arrogant who trampled the Sisterhood's 'goodwill' in dirt. Alinna the fiend who extinguish the many lives of the 'virtuous'."
"You are being over-dramatic, boss." Joel chuckled, but offered a piece of his honest mind. "If you don’t do that, you probably will end up on the autopsy table of either the cunning women or the self-righteous poker cult."
"See, Joel, that's what I like about you. You have common sense."
Their philosophical exchange ended with a knock. The door swung open to the sleek form of Lysandris, who came to deliver the following announcement.
"My lady, Lord Vlad of the Moon and Sixpence requests an audience."
"Vlad? What a delightful surprise! Please, do let him in!" The twin amber stars of Alinna's eyes lit up with joy. She rose from her musical instrument with sharp grace, straightened her navy coat, and settled onto the long sofa facing the entrance. Joel followed suit, taking his place at her right.
The butler bowed and discreetly retreated. Joel watched the imposing figure of the legendary vampire emerged from the hallway. The human had always thought Alinna was tall, but the vampire king was on the next level, the inhuman level, fitting the Dorfyns' standard.
"Mu…I mean my lady." Vlad greeted, offering a respectful nod of his head.
"Yes, my dear Vlad, come and sit with us!" Alinna extended her arm, beckoning him forward. Her entirety brimmed with genuine happiness.
Vlad walked past Joel, the many pendants and chains around his neck composed a chaotic jingle. A single, casual glance from the vampire sent a shiver down Joel's spine, his body instinctively inching away. Vlad approached Alinna, pressing a reverent kiss to her ring before taking his seat.
"What brings you here tonight, my dear? I thought you don’t like to be seen mingling with us Ichorborns." The lady asked.
"No, I prefer not." The vampire turned his crimson gaze towards Joel, who was clever enough to catch the cue. "I...I'll go check if Master Bai needs a hand in the green house." With that said, he stood up and excused himself.
"Had I not known you better, I'd say you have seen a ghost. What is it?" As they found themselves alone in the dimly lit suite, Alinna moved closer to Vlad, brushing aside his tousled locks, furrowing with concern at his ashen, deader-than-usual complexion. Vlad's response came in the form of a tablet, the one left behind by the former park ranger, which he present on the silver-gilded tea table. Alinna's eyes flicked to the screen, there they met with a photo.
"Mikhail dragged you into his ghostbuster business? What’s the story this time?" She asked, her curiosity piqued.
"A...very nice...young man brought this to our attention..." Vlad zoomed in on the photo, careful not to scratch the glass with his razor-sharp fingernails.
"So, you did see a ghost? It is just me or the lord of the bone throne is afraid of ghosts?" The Nightborn quipped, arching an eyebrow mischievously.
"Quit calling me that, mum! It makes me sound like a mash-brained Khorne worshipper!"
"No, you are better than that, Vlad...You value the end, rather than lost in the means," Alinna sighed, her expression surprisingly solemn.
"Let’s not jump to conclusion about the ends, means and ghosts, my lady..." Vlad echoed another sigh, the dim light masked a faint blush on his cheeks..
"Not a ghost? What is it then?"
"I don’t know. Unless ghosts suddenly decide blood tastes better than, say, energy? Emotions?"
"Vlad, did Francis Varney give you trouble again?" The Nightborn leaned forward, sternness clung to her face. She knew better than anyone else the capability of the vampire king. If things were worth escalating, they were bound to be serious.
"Oh come on, mum, that's an insult!" Vlad pouted, rolling his eyes at the name of his old rival. "I’m way more powerful than that Teeny-Tiny Francis Varney! I have the speed of the lightning, the strength of twenty men, I shift between many shapes, I command the creatures of the night. I see in the dark, meld with the dark, creep through the dark..." He paused, gathering his thoughts before seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation back to the reason he came here for. "But I cannot control the very essence of darkness. Those black misty things, I cannot spindle them around my fingers."
"What, what do you mean?"
"This...individual..." The vampire pointed to the photo. "She can."
"Vlad, do you understand the meaning of what you are telling me?"
"Yes, my lady, I know what I saw. She fed on blood, she made herself an armour of those black mist. And her eyes...they are like yours, like Lord Milos's..."
There was a shift in the air, perhaps triggered by the mention of the elder Nightborn's name. Alinna's entire presence darkened, a shadowy veil enveloping her. The twin amber stars of her eyes now burned with an icy intensity that sent a shiver down Vlad's spine. The vampire felt a strange tingle in his chest, akin to an electric shock that almost jump-started his otherwise dead still heart.
"Do you think this...individual...is...I mean might be...one of you?" Vlad mumbled, his red eyes averting the embodiment of the moonless night.
"They are all dead, Vlad. Saving for Lord Milos and the handful of us in the Sanctuary." The Nightborn gave voice through darkness and coldness.
"They. Are. All. Dead."
