2. The Patrician
Cristo Trebello’s eyes flick from one side to the other, gleaming amongst the twilight, a shimmering red light against the oily black of his sclera. He looks across the small township of Crumbleton from the second floor window of the mayor’s house, smirking slightly. He did not have to toil for his meals, unlike the farmers and peasants in the township.
Carefully, he wipes his mouth so no blood drips down onto his white shirt or his fine vest, embroidered with golden thread, nearly covered by his long black cloak-- which has a symbol of a fanged skull embroidered onto the underside in silken red. He looks back at the mayor and her husband, still asleep, the twin bitemarks in the mayor’s neck spreading a strange blackness through her veins like a poison. Satisfied with his work, Cristo slips out from his perch, one hand grabbing the roof above the window as he sets his foot on the shingles beneath it. Quickly, he turns about and softly motions, furrowing his brow as the window slips closed.
With that, the greater vampire quietly steps up the roof, walking without much difficulty up the rain-slicked ceramic, cloak blowing gently in the wind as fingers of mist reach and curl above the house. He smiles, fangs glinting softly as he licks the last of the blood from them. “Another beautiful Nightport moonrise.” Cristo chuckles to himself smugly. With a sigh he closes his eyes and listens to the wind, the chirping of crickets, and the distant waters of the marsh. Then it's joined by the jingling of chains. Cristo’s eyes open and he furrows his brow as he turns around, reaching up and adjusting one of his sleeve cuffs.
With that, Cristo leaps down from the roof, cloak sweeping up in the air, resembling a pair of bat’s wings, if for only a moment. He lands quietly upon the soggy ground, and quickly looks about, his glowing red eyes burning away the shadows as he utilizes his natural night vision. “I dislike easedropers.” he states, bearing his fangs slightly, unable to see any source for the noise as of yet.
He darts forwards, one hand reaching out as he places it on a tree trunk. The darkness in his blood percolates beneath his skin as his hand is briefly affixed, allowing him to launch himself upwards, perching on a branch. Listening carefully, his supernatural senses extend out like a penumbra of sensory information. He hears the bubbling of the marsh, the croaks of frogs, the disjointed gallop of a strange creature. Then, the quiet crunch of leaves, the slow slight squeak of well worn leather, and the quiet clink, clink of chains. Cristo smirks as he hones his senses in.
Then, the sound of the chain’s jingle grows to a crescendo, joined by the sound of something whipping through the air, shattering his focus like glass.
With a start, Cristo turns about, standing on the branch as a gleaming curved blade emerges from the night, a long chain attached to it as it hurls towards him, forcing him to leap backwards off the tree, lest it gut him like a fish. He watches it serenely cut through the air, before it is yanked backwards and into the hand of his assailant.
The figure is surprisingly short, no more than five feet tall, if that. They’re dressed in full black with a wide brimmed hat-- like that of an extravagant duelist, but bereft of the flair-- and a long black leather coat. Their face is concealed behind a black leather mask shaped like the head of a crow, gleaming lenses over their eyes and a strange, swirling, spined symbol on their wrist. In each hand they hold a sickle, tied to their belt by a long, black chain. The blade gleams a cold, wicked silver.
Cristo pushes himself up, snarling, and shaking off the pain from his fall, his body repairing itself through his unnatural power. “It’s quite rude to sling blades at someone without introducing yourself properly, you know!” He says, eyes gleaming angrily, waiting for an opening to dash forwards and strike.
The stranger doesn’t skip a beat, silently walking towards the vampire, sickles held out, as if daring Cristo to test them.
The Greater Vampire hisses, hand darting to his hip and pulls forth the saber he often keeps by his side, cutting towards his assailant as he draws the blade. But his foe is unexpectedly agile, as they grasp a lower section of chain and pull it taut, stopping the blow in its tracks.
Then the stranger lunges forwards and brings their sickles up, a flash of fear hitting Cristo as he hops back-- before darkness consumes his vision and a cold burning line of pain overtakes his face. The blinded vampire suppresses a howl of pain as he stumbles and leaps away from his assailant, the terror of mortality filling his mind for the first time in years.
“M-my eyes!” He hisses in panic, back bumping against something solid. As he reaches out to try and feel what it is, there’s a brief tinkling of metal and a whirling noise before something whips towards him, and he raises his saber and his hands to shield himself.
Searing pain explodes in an icy crescent along his left arm, as flesh meets silvered steel, and Cristo curses, feeling a tree behind him as he scrambles around it, blindly bounding through the woods. Behind him he can hear the sound of muffled, swift foot falls, and murmuring. Not the bass tones of a man, not quite. Despite the gruff and deeper then average tone, the voice is clearly that of a woman.
“Upon your whip’s blades may this damned soul break.” She hisses, and then Cristo skids to a stop as he feels the prickling heat of divine magic, his jaw clenching, anmuscles tensing.
It’s then that he senses the blade, alight with power, being slung towards his neck, and on instinct, Cristo hurls himself upwards, cloak curling in on him as his body melds and shrinks, his arms and cloak fusing to a pair of leathery wings, and Cristo flaps upwards in the shape of a large, fiendish looking bat, evading the strike.
He screeches in pain, as he pumps his injured wing, the wound burning from the silver preventing it from healing as swiftly as it should. He careens between trees, squeaking in distress as he tries to find a path to escape this deadly assault.
He can hear the masked woman falling behind as he pushes himself forwards, but before he can break away, she skids to a stop and stands defiantly. “You cannot run from fate.” She spits, raising her sickles above her head and striking the blades together, a piercing ringing filling his mind as he flaps disorientedly, and tumbles to the ground, shifting back to his vampiric form.
“You prudish arrogant bitch.” He sneers, blinking, the blackness in his eyes giving way to an indistinct world of dark, blurry shapes.
“Be silent, creature.” His opponent growls, and he spots an indistinct movement in his damaged vision, clumsily dodging aside.
The dark woman quickly responds by bringing her other sickle around and swinging it at Cristo. “Filth like you cannot escape from death!”
The vampire growls and raises his blade, preparing to parry oncoming attacks, however he stops short as something wraps around his leg. Realizing what she was attempting to do, he yanks his leg back, pouring vampiric power into his muscles, and he feels the chain pull loose and a grunt of anger from where he assumed his assailant was. Cristo kicks off the weapon, placing one foot on it and holding out his saber, smirking cockily, shifting his weight slightly.
“I have killed Slayers before…” He says as ominously as he can muster, silently hoping his eyes will heal quickly.
He hears the jingle of a chain falling limp, and then a flash of movement, as he raises his blade to block a bright streak, his saber colliding with her remaining sickle as she leapt towards him. His strength forces her to hop back, out of his reach, but she doesn’t seem deterred.
“You’ve never fought one like me.” She states, her blade gleaming as his eyes look onto it in the darkness. With that the woman murmurs something that Cristo can barely make out, wincing as he absentmindedly tries to furrow his brow. “Oetheus, by your will, let this beast be fettered.”
Suddenly Cristo shudders, an otherworldly power washing over him, and he just barely manages to parry another attack from her sickle, her viciousness forcing him back. As he stumbles, Cristo feels almost deflated, like some portion of his vampiric strength was briefly snatched away from him by the woman’s reverent entreatment.
“So you worship death then.” He growls, vampiric power restoring itself. “How distasteful.” Sneers the vampire, wiping away blood as his blurry vision becomes slightly more focused. He sees the dark shape of the Slayer reach down, presumably retrieving her second blade, and he jumps forwards, sweeping his blade in a long arc towards her. She snaps to attention, and leaps up, delivering a harsh kick to Cristo’s healing face, although his blade still manages to nick her side as she winces.
Cristo cries out, shaking his head as the blow irritates his silver-burned wound. Focusing as much of his fury and pain as he can, Cristo wills the darkness in him to obey, and runs his hand along his blade, the drops of blood spilt upon it crackling as eerie wisps of grey smoke rise from them. Undeterred, he sees the woman begin to circle him.
“So your vision is healing already…” She deduces, moving her hand quickly and then hurling a sickle towards the undead. Cristo rolls to the side, throwing out his hands to keep him from slamming against a tree, as he presses his palm to it and climbs up, like some unholy breed of spider.
The woman wastes no time in yanking her sickle back to her and hurling a second up at Cristo, hooking it on his right arm. He has only a brief moment before she pulls it through, the silvered weapon severs his hand, sword tumbling to the ground.
With a scream, Cristo lunges up and grabs the highest branch he can reach with his good hand, pulling himself up. Helinks as his vision is mostly restored, eyes gleaming with hate and fear as he looks down at the woman. He glares as she walks to his blade and severed hand, examining the ornate, richly decorated weapon before she places her heel near the end of the blade, swiftly pressing down, snapping off the point and earning a hiss of frustration from Cristo.
His mind races as the woman spins her sickle about by its chain, readying another attack. He settles on the only solution he can see. He needed to make it back to the city.
As the stranger swings her sickle at him, Cristo launches himself from the branch. The vampire tumbles across the ground before he leaps to his feet, rushing through the woods. At a brief glance, he sees the woman giving chase, moving with deft, agile movements. With his sight restored, he realizes that her build isn’t just short, but muscular, particularly her upper body.
She’s a dwarf, he realizes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Leaping and scrambling forward, Christo curses his severed hand, which is preventing him from taking on the form of a bat to escape. His assailant, quickly realizing his intent, issues another prayer under her breath, a dim gleam in her eyes as her speed increases dramatically, barreling towards him. She closes the gap, raising her sickle to strike.
A deathly, horrific shriek slices through the night, both the combatants’ attention snapping to the trees as something wicked bursts forth; a twisted, skinless monster with eyes ablaze with green fire, a humanoid torso fused to a skinless horse’s back, both its fanged maws open in an unearthly scream.
“I thought they killed this thing!” Yelps the woman, leaping back, lifting the hand that bears the spiky spiral. “The Lands Beyond Beckon!” She growls, a flash of eerie lavender light issuing forth, cuts and slashes erupting across the monster’s sinewy and horrific flesh.
The creature howls and twists, its humanoid form writhing, hands grasping at its chest, claws digging into itself. Cristo only backs away, morbid curiosity overtaking his fear as he looks upon this monster. His curiosity swiftly changes to horror as the monster rips its chest open, black viscera erupting out as unnaturally long arms reach out at both the vampire and the Slayer.
Still in shock, the stranger is struck in the face, one of the lenses on her mask cracking, as a green eye gleams defiantly beneath. “Go to hell!” She spits venomously, cutting one of the arms with her sickle, earning another shriek from the creature.
Taking advantage of this opportunity, and overcoming his emotions in favor of practicality, Cristo darts into the woods. He weaves between the trees as fast as he can, slipping away from the masked dwarf woman and that awful… thing. The sound of the shrieks and stomping follows him as he flees, and though he doubts it would kill her, he wasn’t going to shed a tear if it did.
Slipping from shadow to shadow, Cristo moves through the city of Nightport, vision sharpening again as he continues to recover from the attack. He feels his stolen blood still rushing through his cold veins, but his thoughts are fixed on getting to safety. His hand is beginning to reform as the bones regrow as solid spikes, akin to a tree branch, the flesh crawling back over them, his bones slowly snapping apart to form the correct joints once they’re fully covered.
In every alley and around every corner, the vampire sees blades gleaming with a silver finish in the blurred edges of his perception, vanishing even as he turns to look, but the idea of them is enough to push him forwards.
At last, the disoriented Cristo Trebello arrives at the tall, twisting and weaving iron gates that acted as one of the entrances to the center of town. In front of it, a pair of guardsmen, dressed in long coats with rivets and metal plates attached to them, forming their distinctive split armor. The two angle their pikes slightly, the sudden presence surprising them, but pause as Cristo steps into the light of one of the street lanterns. Drying blood drenches his normally well-kept attire and face
“Statesman!” One cries, the two Nightwatch men rushing towards Cristo, only to be rebuffed as he is pushed away.
“Save your concern, open that gate!” He growls, his noble demeanor quite spent by the night’s happenings.
The men swiftly comply, and Cristo rushes past them, quietly fuming at having been forced to appear so indignant before mere mortals. He quickly arrives at the doors of the towering four story manor that stood at the very heart of the city. With a final grunt, Cristo pushes them open and stumbles in, nearly tripping on the threshold, the heavy, dark, oaken doors swinging shut behind him.
For a moment there is nothing but the echoing sound of the doors shutting and the quiet footsteps of the few servants still about in the main mansion. The main hall is lit by the flickering glow of various candles placed throughout, although the surrounding darkness poses no challenge to the main inhabitants of the manor. Then Cristo hears something he’d been silently hoping not to.
Beneath the sounds of night comes an eerie, vaporous noise, like the quiet exhalation of pipe smoke. Seeping down around the chandelier above and extinguishing the few candles still lit on its many metal arms, a pale grey mist descends, drifting and swirling, increasing speed, moving more and more rapidly until it’s like a whirlwind.
All at once it ceases, and before Cristo stands his master. The Vampire Lord is finely dressed, much like Christo, though far cleaner at the moment. He sports a black and golden vest worn over a fine white dress shirt, a long black jacket featuring a fur-lined collar, and gold buttons along the cuffs and main line embellished with small sapphires. In one leather gloved hand he holds open a book that seems to bear some connection to mystical powers-- judging by the markings on the cover-- while the other rests upon the sculpted draconic visage that acts as the head of his cane.
Alvertos Darke eyes his subordinate cooly, his long, black hair pulled back into a short, neat bun, not a single strand obscuring his jet black eyes, broken only by the pure red glow of his irises. Cristo feels that cold gaze burrow into him, as though seeking something, easily piercing past his undead exterior. At last, the Baron speaks, his eloquent voice hiding a dangerous undercurrent of outrage, a scowl barely held back from twisting his supernaturally perfect features.
“I suppose it’d only be polite to allow you a moment to explain this… state, I seem to find you in.” Darke mutters, snapping the book shut, a hint of that venomous scowl revealing itself, causing a slight shift to his well braided goatee.
Cristo opens his mouth, intending to say something, but in quite a frightening change, the normally quick witted politician is speechless, barely holding his hands back from shaking.
In a flash, a jab of white-hot pain erupts from his jaw as his head is thrown back by the force of the sudden blow.
“When I ask you for an explanation Trebello, I expect one!” snaps Darke, lowering his cane, even as the blow it had just given Cristo still reverberates through his body.
At last, the Statesman finds his voice, working his jaw slightly, thankful that the Baron had withheld enough force to keep the strike from breaking it.
“An assassin of some sort, wore all black and fought like a demon. Struck with intent, I suspect she was a Slayer.” He explains quickly, hoping that this explanation will be sufficient. However this still seems to fall short of Darke’s expectations, as the older nightwalker slips the book into one of his coat pockets and his hand darts out like a striking serpent, hoisting Cristo up by his throat. His toes barely brush the ground, the Greater Vampire sputters and chokes in distress. Alvertos calmly leans his face nearer to Christo’s.
“A lone slayer left you in such a sorry state? Perhaps your authority has gone to your head, and made you negligent, but I will not have some band of halfwit, ragtag, mercenaries with swords coated by melted down forks be the undoing of a blackblood I’ve spent so much of my time molding into so. Perfect. A vampire!” Alvertos Darke growls, dropping Cristo suddenly. The Greater Vampire’s enhanced reflexes are the only thing preventing him from being sent sprawling. “Now, get out of my sight and clean yourself up. We will speak of your lapse in caution once you’re presentable again. But this discussion is far from over.” Darke hisses.
Cristo stands up, his regenerated hand still raw from the thinned skin following its regrowth. The vampire bows, then departs as quickly as he can, rushing past the vampiric Midnight Maids to his quarters, a mix of humiliation and terror filling him.
Just as he rounds a corner, Cristo skids to a stop, a thin man with long, straight, brown hair, a pair of white gloves, and a set of fine clothes-- complete with a deep maroon vest-- stands before him. The Head of Servants eyes Cristo with the same piercing stare that the Greater Vampire has always found so irksome. Without a word, he produces a towelette from a pocket in his vest, elegantly handing it to Cristo as he walks past, clapping his hands, the Midnight Maids nearby snapping to attention and beginning to remove the dirt and few blood drops that Cristo had left behind.
Cristo Trebello simply watches the others go to work before he slips into his quarters. It is well furnished in red and gold, meshing well with the darkened wood, quite extravagant quarters compared to his lowly prey. The fireplace burns at a low smolder, the servants must have been tending it in the meantime.
Cristo hurriedly tosses aside his jacket and shirt, throwing open the doors of his closet and retrieving new ones. Waiting a moment as his wounds heal just a bit more, he wipes off the grime and blood, discarding the filth into a tub off to the side for the maids. One hand braced against the dresser, he looks up at the mirror, the figure reflected in it revealing blackened veins and a gaunt, distorted appearance. Cristo hisses in annoyance and stands up, donning his new clothes and turning to the door.
He steps out into the hallway, glancing both ways before closing it and glancing back the way he’d come. Standing by the end of the hallway, a lone Midnight Maid dusts an end table, glancing back at him, eyes gleaming despite showing no emotion. Wordlessly, Cristo turns on his heel and walks further into the manor.
Descending a set of spiral stairs, the Greater Vampire slips into a slightly less embellished area of the mansion. While still finely decorated, there are fewer examples of antique sculptures, rare paintings, and frivolous bookshelves here, indicating that this was an area more suited to the staff, rather than the nobility.
Ignoring this, Cristo stops and raps his fist against one of the doors, an annoyed grumble audible from the other side. After a moment, it cracks open, a gleaming pair of red eyes silently staring out at Cristo for a moment. Then the door finally opens, a man with a rough but pale complexion, unruly stubble, and messy reddish hair tinted dark standing before him. He’s dressed in a simple white shirt, a long, brown, studded leather vest with several pockets and loops, and dark pants also bearing many pouches and pockets. On his head is a wide brimmed black hat with a red feather, and one side of the brim pinned up.
“Advisor… to what do I owe the… pleasure?” The man asks, scowling slightly.
“I have need of your… expertise, Jericho.” Cristo states.
The lesser vampire sighs, rolling his eyes at Cristo’s high browed tone and flowery language. “Don’t butter me up you bloody sycophant, spit it out.” Jericho snaps impatiently.
“… there’s a Slayer parading about, dressing as a plague doctor, like the ones from Castrael… find them. Kill anyone who gets in your way. You have four days.” Cristo replies, narrowing his eyes.
“Alright… I’ll get the bitch.” Jericho promises dispassionately, closing the door.
Cristo growls in annoyance, the huntsman's complacency and obtrusive tone wearing at his already paper thin patience. With nothing left to finalize, Cristo ascends back to the main area of the house, making his way to the foyer. He finds it empty, but his ears prick up as he detects a faint nearby humming.
Stepping into the adjacent sitting room, he sees Darke reclining in a leather armchair, legs crossed casually, softly humming a well practiced tune. He looks out the window up at the moon, the sky beginning to show the barest hints of dawn’s light. He doesn’t bother looking at Cristo as the other vampire enters, quietly contemplating for another moment before he speaks.
“This is the closest one of those monster hunters has gotten to a member of our court since we turned her…” Darke states coldly. “They’ve grown bolder, and we’ve grown careless. We can’t afford that.” He continues, rising from his seat, arms crossed behind his back. He turns to Cristo, eyes piercing into him. “Remind them of their place, old friend. I intend to speak to William and Radella about next steps moving forward. But I’m trusting you to put down this rabble, as you know full well the risk it poses.” The Vampire Lord states, before turning back towards the window, uttering one final warning to the patrician.
“Don’t fail me.” The Baron mutters, the words chilling Cristo to his core.
“Your will is my command, Baron Darke.” Cristo replies with a bow, skillfully hiding his fear, stepping back and out of the room with a new task in mind, and much work left to be done.
