Chapter Text
Flanked by two hulking demons of his own design, Isaac keeps his hood up as he peruses the vendors at this particular night market. In his hand he holds a list, although he's practically memorized it by now. A list of ingredients in his master's careful black script; some far-flung herbs or potions in places too delicate to land the castle, or too difficult or annoying or costly to gather himself. His master's wife, Lisa, is busy setting up her doctor's office and needs all manner of things, some of which can only be found here in this wretched corner of the country.
Isaac is not an unfamiliar sight here, for which he is grateful. He knows his species' penchant for cruelty by now, and humans traditionally have been unwelcome at the night market. It took a lot of effort, both on Isaac's and on his master's part, to allow him to walk unmolested through a crowd of hungry vampires, but the effort is well worth it. His gift is flourishing: in the last year he's been able to forge his own dagger rather than use something borrowed that doesn't work half as well, and the two tall, winged creatures next to him as his bodyguards are a walking testament.
Of course, practicing his gift means a steady stream of human bodies, and Lisa forbade them from the simplest solution of acquiring Isaac's raw ingredients themselves. Privately, the 17-year-old Isaac doesn't understand why she holds such sway over this part of her husband's life or why the acquiring method even matters, but Dracula's warm, acquiescent smile and nod to his beloved sealed that for them long ago. Isaac will have to find his ingredients elsewhere. Hence, being sent to the night market.
He looks at the list again. The ingredients, Dracula stresses, must be both exacting and fresh. Later they'll have time to practice on the more rotting, the less pure. But with Isaac's gift still in its infancy, Dracula wishes for him to pull from the freshest dead without distraction. At the bottom of the list in an entirely different script are the words;
And a PUPPY please!
Which can only belong to the master's son. With Lisa moving back and forth between her office and the castle, Adrian was becoming bored and restless without his mother to entertain him. But that wasn't Isaac's concern; he ignores the last of the list and begins his grim work of sorting through the mess.
And it is a mess. The night market smells terrible. Blood, shit, fear, sweat, and piss are all distinct aromas, coming from the piles of corpses behind the stalls. He's in the worst thick of it now, arguing with a tall bird-like demon over the manner by which she acquired her 'goods'.
"You dug up a plague pit." Isaac accuses in his light, dismissive tone, stepping back away from the sickness lest he catch it too.
"Didn't! Didn't!" She caws back, loud and screeching, her eyes hidden by a bandage wrapped around her head. "Only fresh for you, Forgemaster!" She jerks her hand out for him to see, clutching a human arm that might have once belonged to a young woman. He stares at it, and then at her, unimpressed.
"And what am I meant to do with that?" He asks, inclining his head. "It's sickly. All the muscle wasted away. Don't bother me with such things." The bird demon sneers in response but takes the arm back. Rather than stick around arguing, Isaac opts to try another stall, further up the way.
The night market this evening is inside part of a cave system in the Carpathians, shielded from the light of day and humans both. It makes the place smell godawful, but it also means that there will likely be fresher goods uphill towards the top of the 'road'. The distance mirror had dropped him at the bottom for this reason: Dracula wants Isaac to use his senses and determine good from bad: sometimes the vendors will stuff their goods with aromas and spices to try tricking the unwary into buying spoiled meat. Isaac isn't going to be someone else's fool, especially not on his master's coin. Unlike some, he takes his responsibilities seriously.
As Isaac nears the crest of the hill, he's able to breathe a bit easier. The meat here is better tended to; the blood and bones separated properly, packed in snow or ice, not dumped haphazard into piles. Even the vendors are more reputable, for a given value of it; less of the kind of carrion demon likely to pick apart another's kill and more the kind to do the killing themselves. He's frustrated that he has to use a middle man rather than source his own goods properly, but knows better than to disobey a direct order from his master. Here too are some of the things on the list for Lisa: nightshade, aloe, myrrh, and poppy. Vampires are immune to such effects, but Isaac finds one selling them anyway, mainly to witches and sorcerers who have at least a bit of human in them. The tall vampire sneers at Isaac, but one of his night creatures tightens his grip on his lance and the young Forgemaster is left alone. He pays without issue, handing the bundle of herbs to one of his attendants, and continues on his way without incident.
Finally, Isaac finds what he's looking for; a suit of armor, enchanted, and employed as a butcher by its unseen master. Isaac's been here before, though he's yet to meet the host of this stall in particular. Some kind of enchanter or vampire, hidden away, who sends his servants to do his bidding instead. The suit of armor turns with unseeing 'eyes' when Isaac approaches and stills its knife from the chopping block. Blood stains the dented armor red. And it may have been his imagination, but Isaac felt sure he hadn't seen some of those dents prior to the last time they met.
"Who approaches?" A voice, strange and ethereal, echoes from the hollows of the armor. Isaac bows his head to show reverence in response.
"Isaac Laforeze. I come on behalf of my master."
The armor doesn't move, but the voice inside takes on a more amiable air.
"Ah, the Dark Prince's Forgemaster." There's two of them now, but Isaac doesn't bother to correct him. "What brings you to my stall?"
Isaac smiles, straightening up. He's unclear of how much the armor can 'see' him, but it never hurts to be polite when dealing with unknown night creatures when at the behest of Dracula. "I am in need of fresh meat. All this carrion I've seen thus far is useless for my purposes."
The armor's voice laughs, and finally the empty shell deigns to move. It cleans itself up first, snatching a damp rag from the canopy above to wipe its gauntlets down. "Then I implore you to come and see for yourself what I have on offer." The voice croons, and the armor pulls a drape back to the caravan attached to the stall. Isaac signals for his attendants to stand guard - he's polite but he's not naive - and walks behind the Butcher's counter to investigate.
Inside the caravan, he finds perfection. Heads and hands in pickled jars collected shortly after death; flayed skins hanging up to dry; whole bodies packed in ice, stacked neatly, and labeled, thank the Night, with what they expired of and how long ago. Isaac immediately starts perusing the racks, and takes the labels of those unfortunates he wishes to purchase. He hums, giving a light smile for the first time since arriving here. He's sure that Dracula will be pleased.
From the back of the caravan comes a muffled grunt.
He glances up, and then over to the Butcher with a meaningful tilt of his head. It's not uncommon to have live prey at the night market, but he's never seen this vendor in particular carry them. Live animals are freshest but they're also the most difficult to handle. Isaac remembers the first time he accompanied Hector to his very first night market slaughter, where the human pens were emptied and drained. Hector was so shaken he buried himself in his room and wouldn't come out for days, only encouraged to come out to eat by the combined efforts of Dracula and Lisa. From that moment, Isaac always came alone. He had no patience for weak stomachs.
Still, it's not yet full moon when the slaughter is set to take place, so it's strange to see the Butcher caring for what Isaac's ears are telling him belong to a human. He's about to ask, when the enchanted armor answers before he can. It bustles by him, uncovering the cage and setting the burlap sheet on top of it.
"I normally would not show just anyone this beauty," The voice intones, "But I think your master may find a special interest in this one, Isaac Laforeze." The Butcher beckons him to come closer. Isaac does, more out of morbid curiosity than any sincere belief Dracula would have cause to care about one human among many.
Inside the cage sits a boy, around twelve or thirteen, pale, either naturally or from blood loss. His arms are locked behind his back, chained together outside of the cage so that he can't move around the tiny space even if he wanted to. A nasty scar curls around one piercing blue eye, the other hidden from view by long, shaggy hair that could have been chestnut brown in the right light. He's not dressed for the cold weather of the mountains, barefoot and in linen trousers, toes beginning to turn blue. Isaac can see where the muffled sounds were coming from; a leather bit is wrapped around the boy's face.
"You have him gagged. Why?" He asks, eyes roving to take in the full picture. There's a crest on the boy's shirt, but that's not unusual; plenty of night creatures recycle clothing if their goods are in danger of freezing to death before getting them home again. Perhaps the most unusual thing in Isaac's eyes, however, is that the boy stares back at him without fear. Quite the contrary: he's furious, panting heavily, straining against the chains binding him to his cage. It's a good effort, Isaac has to give him that, but a waste of strength. All he's doing is injuring himself, the metal binding his wrists digging bruises into him.
"He spits. And he bites." The armor intones. Isaac smiles; the boy snarls, cursing at them both, voice garbled through his gag. It's a shame he's not permitted to take home live meat: this boy would have made a fine vessel for a night creature. It wasn't just the state of the rot or lack thereof: Dracula had also indicated that the body still holds some traces of its former life after death, lending strength to whatever force of Hell comes to occupy its body. And this one is strong. Isaac stands up, the boy's eyes following him, twisted up with hatred at the sight of a human working in league with the monsters who captured him.
"He's in fine condition, but I'm afraid my master forbids me from live prey." Isaac explains, setting a hand on the top of the cage to address the Butcher.
"It is not for your purposes I show him to you, Forgemaster." The Butcher says, with the hint of a smile in his echoed voice. "I found him hiding on the grounds of the old Belmont estate."
Isaac's hand stills on top of the cage, and the boy noticeably falls silent in his efforts to escape or attack.
"And so what?" He asks, voice betraying nothing. "He could be anyone. A farmer's boy, a son of a servant. Where you found him proves nothing."
The Butcher's armor nods once, and reaches up to retrieve a box above his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac watches the boy inside the cage. He's transfixed by whatever lies inside, having gone quiet so he can watch.
"He had this on him." The armor intones, opening it up to show Isaac. The forgemaster leans in to examine a whip. It's well-made, oiled and taken good care of, but nothing special to his eyes. He resists the urge to sigh; he likes this vendor, and he's going to need to tread carefully so as not to offend him by accusing him of fraud.
"If this is all the proof you have, I will take what I've already purchased and leave you to sell him elsewhere."
The box is shut and put away. "You don't believe me."
Isaac shakes his head once; "A whip, even a consecrated whip, is no proof. You could have a young graverobber for all I am aware." At that accusation, the boy jerks once, chains rattling, before he settles back down.
Interesting.
"Would his blood serve as proof?" The Butcher asks. Both Isaac and the boy still. He turns to look at the supposed Belmont; the boy is trembling, again with rage, potentially disguising fear. If it's an act, it's a good one.
Finally, Isaac nods.
"Yes, I believe that would be enough to convince my master."
The Butcher has no face, but Isaac gets the impression that he's smiling anyway. With the armor's enormous strength, he turns the cage around so that the two of them have a clear view of the boy's forearms. Here Isaac can get a better view of what he already suspected; the boy has twisted his arms so much and so fiercely that dark purple bruises outline his wrists. He suspects this is where the new dents in the armor may have come from.
"Hold him down against the bars." Isaac does as asked, reaching through the bars to wrap a strong arm around the caged boy's shoulders. At the sudden touch of another, the brat goes wild, wriggling and screaming threats. Isaac finds he has to concentrate just to hold the boy still; he's no stranger to unwilling participants but the boy is reacting with the strength of a man grown. But it's two against one, and the 'Belmont' is only human, whatever else he is. The Butcher moves fast; a quick slice from one of his knives at his waist, and the boy's forearm begins to bleed sluggishly.
Isaac reaches for an offered handkerchief, dabbing at the blood to get enough of it. He won't know how to tell one human from another by scent, but Dracula certainly will. They stand, the armor and the forgemaster, leaving the boy to clot and struggle in the back of the caravan.
"If he is what you say he is, I may return tomorrow evening." says Isaac, carefully folding the handkerchief and placing it in his breast pocket. "For now, I will take the three bodies you have stored next to him, and be on my way."
The Butcher nods, and reaches a gauntlet out to shake Isaac's hand, leaving bloody stains over it.
"Always a pleasure, Forgemaster."