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Chapter Text

The girl yawned and reclined in her chair, her back long since adjusting to the thick and firm leather seats of Mephistopheles to the point where they may as well have been a plush bed for her aching back. Kicking her feet up, she plucked her phone from her pocket and lazily thumbed through her notifications, her eyes continually drifting to the clock in the corner: 17:45, it read in dim, white lines. Her fingers combed through her red hair, occasionally catching her rope hairband and readjusting it as it sagged and slipped forward. She’d foregone her jacket and her tie, leaving them hanging in her room while she returned to the main bus in the collared undershirt, half-unbuttoned and noticeably wrinkled, and her dress pants. Her toes flexed, freed from her tight and rather battered shoes but still safely cushioned underneath her white socks; if this session was like the others, she knew better than to spend the time in her stuffy and probably bloodied uniform.

“Oi, Ish.”

Her chair shook before she’d fully registered the jovial voice at her ear. She rolled her eyes, thumbing the power button on her phone before looking over at Heathcliff with a smirk. He had the same idea as Ishmael; granted, it didn’t exactly mean much considering that Heathcliff never wore his jacket unless threatened by Vergilius’s gladius. She shrugged and slid her feet off the chair, letting Heathcliff plop down next to her; she already knew he’d be too lazy to find his own chair anyway. He scratched the side of his face, the small cogs that masqueraded as his brain clearly working overtime. “Uhh, where’s Faust and the others? Ain’t they supposed to be here already?”

“We usually start at 18:00, you know,” Ishmael said with a sigh, the disappointment laced throughout each syllable. “You ask this every single time.”

“Hey, least I’m the most punctual of the lot,” Heathcliff snorted, playfully jabbing at Ishmael’s arm. “Remember when ol’ Hong Lu got the damn night cancelled because he’d been off seeing a movie and forgot what the bloody day was?”

The annoyed disdain that flickered across Ishmael’s face was more than enough to answer that question. She’d forgotten how long it’d been since their intrepid journey on this cramped bus, facing down whales, distortions, Syndicates, actual assassins, and sentient raw chickens. Over the past few months, they’d long since grown out of their original pastime of waving their weapons wildly at each other until one was left still partially breathing, much to the relief of their beloved manager. The issue, of course, now was thus: how did they keep themselves entertained in the interim or late at night?

Because if they had to repeat another agonizing few weeks at sea, even Ishmael couldn’t guarantee she’d stop carving wood figures and start carving Heathcliff into some esoteric art piece.

It was at the height of their boredom that Don Quixote, halfway through regaling the bus through another story of the magnanimous adventures of the Red Mist, presented a collection of board games, each of course some limited edition version based off the many Colors ascended by the Hana. Though many of the group brushed it off as more of Don’s feverish and unhealthy obsession, one box had given Faust pause amidst the clutter and the gaudy packaging and Don whining that Outis was cutting her off in the middle of one of the Vermillion Cross’s rousing speeches.

It was on that day that Ishmael learned Faust and Don shared an interest in Dungeons and Dragons, of all things.

Even more unbelievably, they were not the only two that had an interest in the tabletop game.

So it was that now the long and dreary nights and even more deathly boring road trips where the group couldn’t entertain themselves in any manner that didn’t devolve into either Ryoshu, Heathcliff, or Outis attempting to strangle another one of the Sinners were now preoccupied with lengthy tabletop sessions. Even Ryoshu, initially a scathing critic of the rather bloodless alternative to their battle royales, had her interest piqued by Faust’s exemplary role as a dungeon master, the Sinner apparently slotting an 18 into her charisma in real life as she did to her many DMPCs. Though interest waxed and waned among the Sinners according to the time of day and any alternative means of killing time, a group of regulars soon emerged among the twelve of them.

And speaking of, the door slamming open at the end of the bus was the signal Ishmael had been waiting for. Spinning around and leaning over the chair, she waved over the other four. If Ishmael’s shirt was slightly undone, the top two buttons unbuttoned to give her neck some breathing room, Rodya’s half-unbuttoned shirt bordered on being more than a little salacious for their fun little outings. Behind her, Yi Sang’s typical formalness kept his neatly ironed shirt fully buttoned and his tie straight and free from creases, though the absence of his jacket showed that even he’d learned that spending four or so hours in full uniform late into the night was ill-advised. Finally, trailing behind the cheerful Rodya and the gentle smile of Yi Sang, a solemn Faust carried a small, prop up table underneath one arm and a giant stack of binders, handbooks, and sheets in the other. Were Ishmael completely unfamiliar with the Sinner’s proficiency with Walpurgisnacht, she’d think that the excess of materials the girl would constantly bring with her with every game would threaten to snap her in two.

Ishmael furrowed her brow, mentally counting the group. Rodya and Yi Sang were here, and Heathcliff was lounging beside her. Faust was getting the table ready, which meant-

“Salutations, my intrepid companions!”

The bus door slammed open, the screech of metal scraping against each other as Don practically tore the sliding door free from its hinges so strident and so agonizing that if Charon were around, she’d have ripped one of the chairs loose and beaten the impudent blonde to death with it. Her jacket hung loosely from her shoulders, a half-eaten churro sticking out from her mouth and a giant stack of books balanced in both of her hands. As she set both stacks down, Ishmael swore she felt Mephistopheles jump a little.

“Faust,” Don began, her eyes sparkling in triumph. “It is as you said. Woe, were I to tarry a minute later, I’d have failed to procure the mythically rare Guide to Monsters that we’d been desperately searching for for so long.”

“You… actually got it?” Faust asked, a rare flash of surprise across her face. “I… uh, Faust thanks you, Don. Faust knew that you would easily have navigated through the Backstreets and acquired that copy before we were forced to leave this area.”

Ishmael crossed her arms, trying not to let her wry amusement be too obvious. She wasn’t sure if Don – or rather, Sancho – was more aware of Faust’s subtle mannerisms and heavy sarcasm now that her true persona was more apparent to the rest of the Sinners or if playing to Don’s ego was more than enough to cause her to lose track of the greater picture. It likely didn’t matter, Ishmael thought, as she grabbed Heathcliff’s wrist and dragged him overly to the hastily assembled table. As the five took their seats nearby, Ishmael watched as Faust studiously poured over book after book, jumping between binder and backpack as dice, figurines, and even several pop-up props were dumped onto the table.

“So, what’s the story this time, Faust?” Heathcliff asked, pulling out his character sheet from his pocket. Despite the numerous crinkles and folds, it was somehow miraculously not torn or smeared.

“Faust had some ideas in mind,” she said, her voice stoic and impassive as she lined up several chairs and a large counter. “Given our past campaigns, Faust feels like she could get away with some… improvisation.”

“Ominous,” Yi Sang commented.

“Ooooh, Fau, you got a whole custom campaign planned for us this time?” Rodya added, drumming her fingers on the table in anticipation.

Faust merely shrugged before finally pulling up her screen, vanishing beneath it as dice clattered onto the table. “Ishmael, can you please take your figure and place it on the chair?”

“Over… there?” Ishmael asked, pointing to the one at the far end of the counter.

“Yes, that will be fine,” Faust replied, another pair of dice bouncing off of the table. “Now… today’s session begins sometime past morning, on a particularly lazy day…”

Chapter Text

Every so often, Ishmael would empty half of the kegs they had lying around and, in-between her drunken groans and bleary vision, ask herself one simple question: How the hell did she end up with this pack of idiots?

Well, things seemed pretty simple when she was growing up in the Lower City. Step one: Train your fucking ass off day and night so the old man wouldn’t literally send her to her room starving. That was the easy part. Step two: Join the Flaming Fist and kick so much ass she got promoted to a comfy position, then coast off of the pay and aim for her own sweet house. Maybe even get her folks something nice too while she was at it.

Ooooooooor she could end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, get dragged into a huge ass riot where some dumbass orcs stirred up some big shit in the town square, accidentally stab your interviewing officer in the knee, and have to flee Baldur’s Gate in a barrel of fish to avoid ending up the newest demonstration of the executioner’s new axe.

… I mean at least her folks knew she was still alive, at any rate.

Okay, so maybe wealth and prestige wasn’t it for ol’ Ishmael. The Sword Coast was pretty scenic but it wasn’t the only thing that was left for her. How about that pretty little nation state of Demacia further inland? I mean they hated mages but fortunately the best Ishmael had ever done with a spell was set that one prick’s barn on fire with a Firebolt. And with a Firebolt, she actually meant that she lit the scroll on fire and threw it at a haystack. So yeah, Demacia seemed perfect. Fortune awaits!

… by that, she meant getting caught in the middle of Jarvan III’s regicide, getting interrogated for a week for hiding out in the wrong damn house while trying to get away from the fanatical mages following that Sylas convict, and burning through what meager expenses she’d clawed together on her way out from the Sword Coast.

Forget fortune. Maybe Ishmael would be lucky if she didn’t end up dying of starvation.

Fortunately, she got to experience what it was like to literally not eat or drink for only a whole day. The river she blundered into while delirious from hunger pains meant she would just be starving instead of dying from thirst. Truly an improvement. She wasn’t even sure what came over her when she tried to stumble in to help that dumb elf on the side of the road, practically ready to chew on bark and her own shield for nourishment before thinking that, yes, a half-starved mercenary reject in her late twenties, basically crawling along the side of the road without the faintest idea of where the nearest city was, could totally take three highwaymen about twice her size.

If anything, Don Quixote saved her that day. I mean, she did quite literally save Ishmael, in that her head would’ve been smashed into several pieces if she didn’t swoop in and “fell those foul villains in one noble and valiant thrust that would impress even the many gods above,” but she did also save Ishmael in pointing her in the direction of the nearest town and providing her a welcome travel companion.

Oh, and the bread, yes, the bread was nice too.

So a wandering human mercenary and her diminutive elven companion constantly yammering in everyone’s ear in some bastardized version of Common that seemed straight out of one of those dusty historic texts you’d see at a monastery wandered into town. It seemed like a punchline to a joke, and if the joke was, “literally stumble directly into an invading army of grotesque abominations from the very dredges of the abyss consuming everything and everyone in their path after the army sent to beat them apparently fell apart due to infighting,” then Ishmael would first ask why you had an eerily specific set of circumstances for a joke. She would then ask why you had such an awful sense of humor.

At the end of the day, though, when faced against the so-called all-devouring, nigh relentless hordes of these ‘Darkspawn,’ creatures, the unlikely duo emerged victorious. If you were to indulge Don, she would likely regale you with heroics of how she and Ishmael barely charged in to buy the townspeople precious time to escape, fending off fiendish creatures and demonic sorcerers whose black arts sickened the soul and whose malevolent tongues sent chills down the spine of even the most hardened adventurers. She’d go on and on about how she climbed atop a bellowing ogre, piercing its thick hide with her lance before cleanly severing its head from its shoulder, causing the abominations to scurry back to their shadows at the very sight of the two chivalrous knights bravely holding the line.

What Don always forgot in her drunken retellings which Ishmael tactfully decided not to add was that the girl landed face-first upon her descent and that the Darkspawn hordes had not retreated; Ishmael dragged Don’s limp, unconscious body into a nearby ditch and played dead until their scouts had simply grown bored and left. Such a… rather unimpressive ending to their tale was hardly one inspiring great confidence in the chronically unemployed duo meandering from town to town in search of whatever commissions they could scrounge up.

So Ishmael was, understandably, dubious when that pale-faced sorcerer approached her as the two limped into a tavern, her blue eyes almost dissecting the muddied, bloodied girl as she took a seat just beside her, dismissing the bartender with a wave of her hand.

“Faust would like to know if you would wish to join our band of adventurers.”

Of course she said yes, not caring if it was some elaborate con or if this “Faust” was actually just some devil from the nine hells ready to snatch up Ishmael’s soul for his collection. Don’s purse was hardly in any better shape than Ishmael’s when they had met and their supplies were, too, on the verge of complete exhaustion. Even if she ended up in the middle of some elaborate trade network puppeteered by some gang of villains or the head of some demonic household situated in the flaming pits of Asphodel, at least she’d be fed.

She hadn’t exactly expected the third option to pan out. A cozy, albeit rather rustic cabin on the city limits of Rivington, the exclusive headquarters of the illustrious mercenary company, “Limbus.” Allegedly, Limbus’s funding was generous and their benefactors quite magnanimous, although the pocket change Faust distributed was hardly enough to cover a week’s worth of snacks. For a moment, she was actually certain this Faust was actually pocketing the pay she was supposed to be getting; though a quick look at Faust’s dismal eating habits and even worse sleeping habits put that idea to rest.

Or maybe rich people did just eat once a day and sleep for three hours, Ishmael figured. It would explain why they all seemed to act like idiots.

So where did that leave Ishmael a year later? Well, she’d received word that her arrest warrant from Baldur’s Gate was subject to appeal, so maybe if she turned back up, she’d be able to talk it out with the Flaming Fist and she wouldn’t be strapped into a guillotine for the amusement of the bored city patrons. She scoffed and downed another mug, the frothy beer clinging to her lips in a series of faint bubbles. Tragically, both her head and her liver had grown hardy over many, many parties, leaving her just aware enough to realize how stupid that idea sounded. With a groan, the girl picked herself up from the makeshift bar and shuffled over to one of the barrels lined up next to their kegs, plucking a small loaf of bread from its confines and wolfing it down. This so-called Limbus company wasn’t exactly some renowned mercenary group whose wealth and prestige made it the admiration and envy of many, but they were apparently known well enough that the girl had long since gotten her feet wet with adventuring. Though her frame was still rather slim and one might even say dainty, still close to that of the starry-eyed Lower City youth that once aspired to rise through the ranks of the Flaming Fist, she could probably gouge the eyes out of some impudent goblin barehanded if she was prompted. Not that she’d want to, at any rate; that’s what the mace was for. Her hair, too, had gone from prim and tidy to a wild and frenzied mane of crimson that ran down her back. To some, she may as well have come straight out of one of those paintings dangling from some pompous noble’s gilded walls, a ravishing, redheaded warrior in the prime of her life, fleet of foot and of picturesque physique. Some might even say the years had done well for the girl’s hips or for her voluptuous breasts.

Those some would be uncouth Heathcliff, and her reaction was, while rather violent, not all too unexpected.

Three sharp knocks at the door roused Ishmael from her half-drunken stupor. Mustering all her strength and tenacity to not blindly trip over the wooden mugs gathering at her bare feet, the redhead clawed along the walls, sloppily wiping the breadcrumbs from her lips and matting down the locks of hair sticking up from her scalp. It was barely a week since Faust had taken almost half of their company off on an expedition; she hardly expected them to conclude the contract so quickly. Naturally, their white-haired leader would boast about how it was natural for their half-fae sorceress, blessed by the gods themselves, to complete even the most daunting commissions with about as much effort as it took to go out and buy groceries. Perhaps Hong Lu, easily charmed by the silliest knick-knacks, would have some souvenirs for the others to gawk at, or maybe Outis would have her little inventions reenact the many, many scuffles that she’d inevitably take credit for being the master tactician of.

Rounding a corner, Ishmael froze mid-step, locking eyes with the shivering young girl at the doorstep of their cabin. Though the rainfall was remarkably mild and uneventful, the brown cloak wrapped around the child’s spindly frame was dark and damp, soaked all the way through. His hand still tightly gripped around the doorknob, Yi Sang stood with his mouth half-agape, the already quiet wizard now speechless at their enigmatic visitor. The kitchen was the only room immune from the disquieting silence that crept into the cabin, sounds of cabinet doors being thrust open and half-emptied boxes being thrown about as Rodya hurriedly went through their supplies.

A sneeze spurred Ishmael to action, her foggy head cleared enough for her to rush forward and grab the girl as she collapsed to the ground. Her faint, red eyes squinted, pupils dilating as they struggled to focus on the warrior cradling her in her arms.

“… Please…” she wheezed through a coughing fit. “… My family needs your help.”

An uneasy tension permeated the air, the type of awkwardness Ishmael only experienced when Faust came back to part of the cabin being on fire. The conversationalists were usually guys like Hong Lu, Faust, even Outis put up the best front for Limbus when potential clients walked through the door. She didn’t mind the occasional bit of small talk with Heathcliff, Yi Sang, hell even Don could hold a conversation every so often. Conversations that sometimes didn’t even involve their adventures or some long-winded tangent about long-dead folk heroes. But the whole clientele business was usually above her pay grade.

Still, with the pale girl slumped in her arms and bundled up in her cloak, and with Rodya busy still assembling… something in the kitchen that wouldn’t send the girl down three or four circles of Hell on consumption, it fell upon the redhead to worm her way through the weary girl’s apprehension and figure out what had even driven them to their small abode.

Gingerly running her fingers down the girl’s arms, she looked opposite her. A disgruntled Heathcliff was slumped on the couch, the half-orc clearly uninvested despite his herculean effort to look the slightest bit welcoming. Meanwhile, the enthusiastic Don Quixote was practically ready to vault over the small table separating the three, her pointed ears twitching as she no doubt readied one of her many, many escapades to regale the girl until she went deaf.

… So yeah, in light of the other two choices, it really did just fall on Ishmael to not terrify the girl into a coma.

Chasing away the unease niggling at the back of her head, she gently gripped the enigmatic girl’s shoulder, inwardly chastising herself as her fingers still managed to tightly press into the obne. A faint grunt was her response as her head slid out of the patchy cloak that cocooned her, red eyes misty with tears and fatigue.

“So, uh,” Ishmael began, already internally kicking herself. “… Remilia, right?”

“Mhm…” the girl replied, tufts of teal hair sticking out above her forehead.

“… Where’s your mom and dad?” Ishmael asked, her voice soft and drawn out in what she hoped came off as considerate and endearing. Being the only child, she’d never really had to coddle someone else before and her social skills were… while not completely inept – she certainly didn’t have the ostracizing charm that Heathcliff exuded with each breath – rather middling at best. Her feigned smile, the upper ends of her mouth curled so upward they might as well have begun digging directly into her cheeks, might have terrified a toddler with its grotesque visage. She nearly let out a sigh of relief as the young girl rested her head on the girl’s chest, seemingly unperturbed by the redhead’s horrific attempt at a smile.

“I… I don’t know,” the girl whimpered, her red eyes misting as tears began to drip down her face. “They just told me to run here and get some help.”

Here? Ishmael’s lip nearly bled as she bit down to stifle her confusion. She glanced across the table, the disinterested Heathcliff leaning forward in a rare moment of piqued interest. His burly hands gripped Don’s shoulder, holding the high elf down before she could practically explode from sheer joy. The sheer thought that someone came to them, Limbus company, must’ve been nothing short of a miracle to the girl.

And to anyone with a lick of sense, it was just plain weird.

Ishmael’s brow furrowed as the redhead eyed the girl cradled in her arms. Her tear-stricken visage betrayed not a single duplicitous smirk nor malicious sneer. As starry-eyed as a newborn doe, lips quivering in a mix of anxiety and worry as she locked her gaze with her would-be savior, a pang of regret shot through Ishmael’s chest. Not everything needed some archaic twist and not every mysterious guest carried some voluminous past that would fill her parents’ bookshelves. Maybe she really was just a lonely, lost girl, desperately looking for help.

“Run here, huh?” the lackadaisical Rodya chimed in, swooping over and planting a mug of hot cocoa in the girl’s trembling hands. “I mean, I don’t blame your parents for having great taste. We are pretty badass, after all.”

“Verily! Truly, our exploits are as numerous as the very stars in the sky. Why once, while fording such a treacherous and perilous stream, we-mmmmmmMMMMMMMMPH!”

Ishmael sighed and tightened her grip on Remilia shoulder, trying not to bring attention to a gagged Don struggling violently against a groaning Heathcliff cupping his hand over her mouth. Catching the girl with a snap of her fingers, the awestruck Remilia seemed to have her enthusiasm cooled by the stoic, poised smile of the redhead. “So, where were your mom and dad then? Were you guys accosted by bandits next to the big ol’ forest there? Or were you guys chased off by some wolves?”

The girl sniffled and rubbed her eyes, taking small sips from the mug in her hand. “I-I’m from Stensia. M-My parents, they’re… kidnapped. They-I needed to find help.”

A poignant spittake ground the conversation to a halt. Ishmael peered over the chair, her irritation quickly replaced by bewilderment as she saw Yi Sang grip his chest, eyes bulging as he restrained himself from a coughing fit. Though his pale complexion was only second to their stalwart Faust’s, his skin, white as marble, might’ve caused Ishmael to mistake him for a corpse had she spared a fleeting glance at him from atop her horse. Silence now dominated the cabin, the very air growing stale and cold save for the faint sips from Remilia’s mug.

Silence. … Yeah, Ishmael felt the hairs on the back of her neck all stand on end as she snapped her gaze to Don. The boisterous paladin now hung limply in Heathcliff’s grip like some deflated balloon, her golden eyes abnormally dull. Her left hand rose and, with surprising speed, yanked Heathcliff’s hand free from her mouth. The half-orc winced; had Don tried any harder, she might’ve snapped his wrist like some branch.

“… To where were your parents taken?” she asked, unusually solemn.

“Falkenrath,” Remilia replied. Her nose wrinkled and her face scrunched in confusion. “… Are you okay, Miss Don? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A ghost may have been more apt a description than Remilia intended, the Limbus adventurers solemnly trotting down the quiet, countryside roads like some kind of funeral procession. With both Gregor and Sinclair volunteering to stay behind and watch over the girl, the quintet set off at the break of dawn, bags laden with a week’s worth of supplies and maps dangling from their belts. If circumstances differed, Ishmael would’ve rather they set off with Faust at the head of the company, leading their troupe of twelve through peril and pleasantry alike, but she and the other half of Limbus were still off on commission for… maybe a week at best? A month at most?

And Don was very eager to get a move on.

The rolling, green hills, accented with a faint orange hue from the sun cresting over a canopy of dead trees, seemed empty. Ishmael would say oddly empty but… well they were traveling at the very fringes of morning toward Stensia of all places. They’d find more company along the River Styx or maybe at an actual graveyard. Ishmael uncomfortably shifted her weight back and forth as her horse kept pace with Don, the pensive paladin’s gaze fixated to some faraway citadel still far out of sight, separated by a few days’ worth of travel. A polite nudging with the back of her heel urged her horse closer to Don’s, while a curt cough tore the blonde’s attention away from her thoughts.

“A-Aha, Lady Ishmael,” Don said, nervously rubbing the back of her head. Her sheepish smile, hastily pulled across her worrisome complexion, failed to capture even a fraction of her usual joyful spark. “S-S-Sorry, t’was thinking of the magnanimous adventures we shall embark upon in our new campaign. It is quite a shame that Lady Faust and Sir Hong Lu will miss out upon this grandiose crusade. ‘Tis not every day one gets a commission so arduous and audacious as to challenge Lady Anje herself!”

“… So you do know who we’re dealing with, then.”

If a changing expression could have sound, Don’s would have been glass shattering. Her golden eyes darted away, trying to avoid the redhead’s piercing glare. “I… shit.”

“You’ve said, like, maybe three things since we set out a few hours ago,” Ishmael observed, crossing her arms. “Are you some changeling that’s absconded with our Don?”

“Very funny, Ishmael,” Don said, her voice devoid of her usual, exaggerated splendor. A long, defeated sigh escaped her lips as Don pulled her feet free from the stirrups of her saddle and swung them over the side of her horse. Bringing her knees to her chest, the pair of worn, leather boots she’d always been particularly fond off came free with two swift yanks, leaving her bare feet exposed. Placing them onto her lap, she closed her eyes and breathed deep, returning a gaze of purest crimson to the redhead. “Yes, I am familiar with the Mistress of Castle Falkenrath. Anyone with the faintest knowledge of Stensia could regale you with tales of Lady Anje’s cruelty.”

“And what tales could you tell us, then?” Ishmael said, tilting her head in mock curiosity.

“None that would be the slightest bit enjoyable,” Don spat, Ishmael’s attempt at humor bouncing off of her. Her pointed ears bristled as she caressed the faded, cracked leather of her boots, the coarse surface of Rocinante like some treasured gem to her fingertips. The adventurers of Limbus company counted many a magical item to their name, the spoils of an innumerable number of adventures as they slew tyrants and delved into dungeons alike, though Don’s favorite magical trinket was a curiosity. Yi Sang and Faust both questioned why the girl took so much pleasure in an item whose only enchantment served to repress the vampiric qualities inherent to her bloodline. Perhaps it was a sense of self-loathing, or maybe a sense of pride. The Don with golden eyes would always wave the question off and feign ignorance, her goofy smile serving as a bulwark upon which even Faust’s surgical interrogation would bounce off of.

And the Don with crimson eyes simply refused to answer anything at all. After all, what could you do if a vampire simply refused to cooperate?

With a pensive frown, the vampire held out her left hand, her skin now a stark white save for her scarlet fingertips. Ishmael felt her skin crawl as droplets of blood, one by one, wormed their way through the crevices of the paladin’s palm, coalescing into a facsimile of some humanoid shape, its vague silhouette defined only by the modest cape stretching to the figure’s waist. Don flexed her hand back and forth, turning the hardblood model about like she was inspecting some antique. “Anje Falkenrath. I can’t think of a better lord of the Falkenrath clan. Nasty, violent brutes who hunt others for sport more than they do for sustenance, practically relishing in their utter debauchery. And she’s the type of person that will look at you with the worst fucking smile possible before ripping your child’s throat out in front of you, then bring up your missed tribute payments.”

“And Remilia’s parents were taken to this sick fuck’s castle, huh?” Ishmael finished, rubbing her temples with an exasperated sigh. “So this is less of a rescue mission and more of a body retrieval?”

“Depends on how long ago the Falkenraths apprehended this girl’s parents,” Don replied. She clenched her fist tight, shattering the figure into several, bloody shards that rained down on the path beneath them. “They have a tendency to stockpile their food.”

The redhead stifled a disgusted wretch. “Fucking abominati-“ Ishmael caught herself, a familiar set of unamused red eyes boring into her. “… Sorry, Don. I didn’t-“

“Relax, Ishmael,” the blonde replied with a trite laugh, drawing a finger across her crimson lips. “I’d have rather poor success integrating into human society if I was so easily put off by a few measly words.”

“Haha… yeah…” Ishmael’s eyes darted away, sweat dripping down the side of her face as she was still all too aware of Don’s knowing gaze. She couldn’t even begin to describe the whirlpool of emotions she drowned in when dragging Don’s unconscious body back to camp after that one botched commission, tending to her wounds only for her heartbeat to stop the second she pulled her greaves off to tend to her wounds, that demonic, scarlet visage petrifying her with a single stare. Every so often she’d stroke the side of her neck, a faint scar running down from chin to shoulder where the blonde’s blade had found its mark, sheer impulse and conviction keeping her from lopping the girl’s head straight off her shoulders… or maybe it was the wooden stake pressed against her chest.

The awkward night concluded with both girls sleeping on opposite sides of the camp.

“… So, this Anje person,” Ishmael finally said, clearing the silence with a cough. “Is she, uh, like you? I mean with the blood blades and stuff.”

“Ehehe.” A cheeky smile spread across the blonde’s face as she conjured a dagger from the flecks of blood still staining her wrists, twirling its hilt between her fingers. “Hardblood arts are, indeed, something most vampires could do with some rudimentary hemomutation. However, it’s usually restricted to crude imitations or, usually, just garish bricks with protruding spikes.” She tossed the dagger up, giving a curt whistle. A small pigeon, innocuous save for its feathers of purest scarlet, descended at her beck and call, perching itself on the girl’s outstretched toes with its crimson talons. “True Hardblood Arts are restricted to the Don Quixote family. I doubt any Falkenrath could do anything more elegant than a simple knife.”

“Right,” Ishmael said, pursing her lips as she saw the pigeon waddle up Don’s foot and fumble up and onto her ankle. “So, like, do we need to shove a stake in this bitch’s heart? Lace her food with garlic? … Throw her into a river?”

“Vampiric immortality is a myth perpetuated by fearmongers and spawns to paint the illusion of some immortal beast prowling about at night,” Don said, waving off the notion with a laugh. “If you stab Anje hard enough, she’ll remain dead much like any other creature. It just requires a bit more effort and maybe tracking her down if and when she attempts to retreat back to the recesses of her lair.”

The pigeon cooed and took flight, circling the girl twice before returning to her outstretched palm, its feathery wings melding together and its head flattening and elongating until it was little more than a lone, silver dagger. “Or I could just kill her while she tries to make a break for it.”

“Sounds easy enough,” the redhead observed with a mocking shrug. “Why even bring us along if you could, like, make a giant blood drill or whatever and skewer Anje dead?”

“Ignoring the fact that if I were to go in with my powers fully manifested, I’d attract every single vampire from Stensia to Volkihar, simply demonstrating these parlor tricks is far different from executing them in combat. I’d probably have one good shot at putting Anje down and then we’d have to resort to more creative measures, and that assumes I don’t tire myself out before then.”

“So it’ll just be boring old dumbass Don Quixote as usual, then?”

“I assure you, Ishmael, you’re losing out on nothing from not seeing me when I’m angry.” Don tossed the dagger behind her before bringing her knees up to her chest, slipping those familiar leather boots back onto her feet. “If I wished to be known as the illustrious vampire knight of the four realms, I’d do so. However, a victory not earned through honor and chivalry is no victory at all.”

“Sure, sure, Don,” Ishmael sighed, turning back to the road ahead of them. “But if we get eaten by vampires, I will personally find your soul in Avernus and beat you over the head.”

The paladin’s golden eyes flicked away, their golden sheen unusually cloudy. The unflappable and chivalrous Don Quixote, always one to counter the company’s pessimism with her overflowing optimism, carried on as quiet as a statue.

The way Don described Stensia, Ishmael expected some ruinous paradise straight out of some gothic novel. A sea of dead trees adorning a dead valley, brown and violet grass sprouting up amidst weeds and stones as the disheveled path snaked its way through the forest like some elusive python as it burrowed its way deeper and deeper into the nest of twisted, depraved killers.

Confronted by a gloomy but otherwise innocuous wooded path, its pathway expertly paved with cobblestone, with a series of signs at makeshift intersections keeping the quintet pointed toward the direction of Castle Falkenrath, Ishmael was uncertain whether the sheer banality of the Stensia countryside was even more eerie than some comically decrepit wasteland. A pensive and solemn Don Quixote leading the rear, her head whipping back and forth at the slightest sound, failed to assuage the growing concerns in the back of the girl’s head.

Perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, or maybe as a foreboding sign of more ill tidings to come, the five soon found themselves no longer the sole travelers down Stensia’s deserted roadways, their horses soon coming to a stop as a procession of travelers and wagons alike filled the path before them, the paranoia murmurs of the blonde girl behind her soon drowned out by the idle chatter of weary adventurers, peddling merchants, and inquisitive nobles alike, a veritable mismatch of people that reminded the redhead so much of Baldur’s Gate’s packed market squares. On instinct, she perked up from her slouch, wondering if she could pick out a fellow Baldurian among the myriad of faces that bobbed in and out of the mass of people like driftwood in the ocean. The redhead, admittedly, was torn between the excitable prospect of speaking to another Baldurian after years of absence and the harrowing thought of being trapped in Stensia’s wilds… in traffic, no less.

“Donqui,” Rodya’s singsong voice chimed over the lingering white noise that began to drown out the quintet’s thoughts. “Do vampires normally attract this much attention?”

“Mayhap,” the blonde replied, shuffling over to the two adventurers after an encouraging yank on her mount’s reins. “I’ve heard fables of such foul demons masquerading as simple lords of unassuming kingdoms. ‘Tis but an idle affair to dismiss the heretical sins of Stensia as mere slander from superstitious clerics and envious nobles looking to besmirch their smaller counterparts. Still…”

“There’s quite a lotta them,” Ishmael noted, biting her lip. “Girl must’ve yanked the tongue out of a djinn and shoved it in her mouth.”

“I estimate around twenty civilians precede us,” Yi Sang chimed in, a pensive frown spreading across his face. “Drawing untoward attention to ourselves would present a myriad of problems, least of all our continued safety.”

“So, what, we’re seriously gonna tarry about in line until we’re all as old as Don?” Heathcliff grumbled, his arm waving across the winding procession with an exaggerated flail. “We’ll be lucky if the lass’s parents didn’t die of old age by the time we get to the end of this sodding line.”

“I-I’ll have you know, Sir Heathcliff, that I am at the pinnacle of my youth!” A flustered red washed over the once pensive face of their vampiric paladin, a welcome return from the stern and solemn persona that underlay the blonde’s cheery visage. “Why, dare I say I am barely past the peak of my adolescence! I-I am but a mewling squire in service to the noblest of knights were I still in the service of my family!”

“Weren’t you literally the second oldest in your family?” the redhead teased with a smirk.

“T-T-THAT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING, ISHMAEL.”

Ishmael stifled a laugh, amused by the brief crack in Don’s façade, the indignant vampire intermingling with the ardent paladin in an unexpectedly straightforward, yet still entertainingly childish manner. For that brief, fleeting moment, the redhead forgot the ghastly reputation of the undead lands their company was now deep within, content simply to recline in her saddle and drink in the merriment. What first seemed to be a fate no different from being turned to stone or waiting in one of the many infamously long lines to the Circus of the Lost Days until you collapsed of hunger soon became no more banal than waiting for Rodya to finish one of her many exquisite steaks she’d whip up on a whim. Don’s flustered and frantic concern soon gave way to her unflinching and persistent persona. At first it was the bored caravaneer, the idle merchant, or a family of three, but soon the magnanimous knight drew even attention from adjoining caravans wishing to bear witness to the girl’s radiant charisma as she went through tale after tale, a living lexicon of every single fable from Baldur’s Gate all the way to the distant fields of Ionia. Reluctantly at first, soon the boisterous Heathcliff joined in on the paladin’s only slightly exaggerated tales, serving both as foil and fiend in the girl’s engrossing stories. Following close behind, both Yi Sang and Rodya listened in, the latter practically toppling out of her saddle with snacks quivering in hand as she sat entranced by the girl’s unrivaled eloquence and the former content merely to recline in his saddle. Though, Ishmael observed with a laugh, she saw Yi Sang’s smile twist as Don’s tales shifted from the many fables of the heroes she once idolized to the exploits of Limbus company, exaggerated no doubt for comedic effect, for dramatic enjoyment, and no doubt due to Don’s selective memory.

The midmorning mists soon gave way to a blisteringly warm azure as the sun began to settle in its zenith, illuminating the otherwise innocuous wooded paths of the wretched vampire nest and drawing out the dour and bone chilling shades of faded viridian and dull brown. Ishmael counted off the seventh leafless tree they’d passed in their plodding procession, wondering if the only mildly haunting aura of the forest around them was due to the malevolence oozing from the wretched lands of the vampires or because it was close to mid-autumn. Her fingers restlessly traced the rim of her shield, Don’s now fifty-eighth retelling of Limbus company’s valiant stand against the fungal machinations of the myconid tyrant, Glut, little more than white noise in her ears as she craned her head, looking above at the travelers past those that grouped eagerly around their bard-adjacent crusader. Had it been simple boredom that had lulled the redhead into an aloof stupor or… had there always been so few people in front of them? She’d sworn that an ever-expansive line of people had been in front of them just a moment ago.

Yet instead, only a small, rickety wagon and a duo of wandering adventurers – two girls a fair bit younger than Sinclair – now seemed to lead them. Ishmael’s fingers pressed into the grooves of her shield, the loud clicks of the wagon’s weathered wheels like crashing footsteps against Don’s jubilant voice.

… No, no, the girl blinked, now realizing that even Don’s voice had gone silent. The groan of the wagon’s wheels were but the white noise droning in her ears, drowned out by the very real thumping of one… no, two steps of heavy feet. The hair on the back of Ishmael’s neck stood on end as she saw the shadows nestled within the confines of the dead trees surrounding the wagon stir.

And move.

She expected token resistance, of course; a vampire’s nest wouldn’t simply just leave its doors open for some galivanting adventurers to just waltz in and shit on their carpet. She expected thralls, maybe some undead, hell, she’d even heard that some vampires and werewolves reached an accord to unite for the shared purpose of feasting on whatever humanoid-shaped treats would dare venture into their territory. She’d met her fair share of such ghoulish creatures; bashed several in with the good end of her mace, too.

But a giant, hulking suit of armor crashing through the trees like some rampaging behemoth loosed from myth itself? I mean she’d dealt with giants and cyclopes before but those had the courtesy of being unarmored. And made of flesh. And not bearing giant, flaming swords about as long as Heathcliff was tall.

Practically glued to her saddle through sheer terror, the redhead could do little but watch, the blood draining from her face, as the steel giant positioned itself in the middle of the road, a makeshift replica of the fabled Colossus of Akros that stood in perpetual vigil at its port, a gigantic statue of a man whose sword was eternally raised in defense of the mediterranean metropolis. Much like that mythical wonder, this steel giant’s blade too, was raised, though to the two cowering girls at the front of the line, it was more like it was poised for an execution. Ishmael gripped the reins of her horse until her knuckles grew white, her mouth as dry as the burning sands of Rabiah as she witnessed, to her growing dismay, a twin to this mechanical malignance stride across the trees that swayed and cowered in its wake, stomping behind the two girls as they turned to flee. Its helm turned down, its sightless glare piercing the travelers where they stood. The two adventurers huddled together in a defensive crouch, the horse behind them neighing restlessly as it tried to free itself from its reins and escape from the rapidly devolving situation.

“Don…” Ishmael said, her hand instinctively moving to grip the shaking paladin and hold her still. Even as the travelers that once sat in awe of the girl’s enchanting tales now shrieked and melted away into the forest’s depths, even as the wagon following closely behind the adventurers quickly turned and barreled into the foliage as though the steel colossi would vaporize them with a single stare, even as soon there was little left but the cornered travelers and the once-unflinching heroes of Limbus, Don’s eyes did not once move from the two menacing giants now blocking their path. She knew that stare all too well, a resolution beyond compare and a presence that quelled all but the fiercest of storms. Trailblazer, a chevalier, a pioneer of the stars, the paladin would stop at nothing to emulate the stories that she recited by heart like a mantra, no matter how slim the odds nor how many people tried to dissuade her. Ishmael knew. She knew all too well.

“Ishmael…” Don said, her voice low, yet brimming with fire. “We shall not simply sit idly by and let these scoundrels; nay, these demons menace these innocents!”

“Calm the fuck down, you idiot,” she whispered harshly, hooking her fingers around Don’s collar and pulling her back. “What’s the whole point of trying to infiltrate a castle if you’re going to kick the door right in their security’s face?”

“Did thou not join thy illustrious ranks of Limbus to strike down evildoers and injustice?” the paladin retorted, her eyes practically shimmering with that same dramatic, idiotic zeal Ishmael had seen several times before. “Is our quest not to delve into the maw of tyrannical despots and rescue the innocents imprisoned within? Yet you would let such blackhearted fiends prey upon these defenseless maidens!”

“D-Don…!” Ishmael snarled, rubbing her temples in irritation. “We can’t just keep picking fights every damn time we see some kinda scuffle! The last time you ran us ragged, we barely kept ourselves afloat while the damned emerald dragon practically cooked Meursault medium rare! Do you know how much gold a scroll of true resurrection is?”

“B-But Ishmael!” The paladin swung from a consternate child to a rebellious teenager in the span of but seconds, the girl’s hands already reaching for her trusty lance. “I-I cannot simply let such ill befall these civilians! Nay, rather, even should the entire world rise up against me, my lance shalt never falter in the pursuit of justice and righteousness!”

The no doubt enthralling, heartfelt plea of the elven vampire welling with confidence and heroism fell on deaf ears, the weary redhead having been beat over the head with every single synonym for “heroic adventurer.” Even as the girl was practically bouncing up and down in her saddle, waving her arms in a desperate bid to catch Ishmael’s attention, Ishmael’s eyes narrowed, trying to focus on the two travelers caught in the pincer of the two colossal constructs. They were maybe just a hair or two taller than Don, their youthful complexions and quite unassuming, round ears putting them probably only a few years older than Remilia. As the golem stepped forward, its behemoth of a sword raised, the older of the two, a twintailed maiden adorned in a patchwork of leather armor, protectively put her arm across the younger girl. A small quiver of arrows rattled on the back of her shoulder as the iron giant drew ever closer, still gazing down on the two as if eyeing its prey.

“Analysis. Human, female, age 15. Blistered fingers, lithe arms suggest expertise in bow. Stature is common among its race. Face does not match any known persons of note.”

“H-Hey!” the girl barked, her pale face regaining its color with a flush of embarrassment. “I can hear you, you know!”

It craned its head to the side, although whether out of amusement or to gaze upon the girl’s traveling companion was uncertain. The younger of the two hid herself away in her cloak, knees knocking together in fright as she hunkered down underneath her friend’s protective shelter. The golem whirred briefly, then its cold, metallic voice boomed again. “Analysis. Human, female, age 14. Unimpressive physique, yet clear detection of magical aura. Mage armor. Magical proficiency noted. Mana levels… above average.” It paused, then leaned forward, its blade precariously perched just above the two girls. “Lady Anje requests the mage’s audience.”

The younger girl whimpered, tufts of her emerald hair sticking out from the cloak she’d practically wrapped her head in. Her archer companion gave an anxious chuckle and wrapped her arm around the other’s shoulder, flashing the golems a thumbs up. “W-W-Well, that’s great! Y-Y’all here at Stensia or whatever’ve got the weirdest kinda welcoming reception, I gotta say. W-We’ll just be heading right in no-“

“The mage,” the golem repeated, its visor shooting toward the older girl. Even from a distance, Ishmael could feel her skin tingle, a faint but quite apparent malice radiating from the stoic golem. “Castle Falkenrath is nearing max capacity. Lady Anje requested all superfluous visitors be turned away.”

“Rebecca…” the mage whimpered, hiding herself behind the girl.

“Relax, Nino,” the archer whispered, before swiftly turning around and snorting. “H-Hey, that wasn’t the deal! The invitation was for ol’ Nino here and any number of her guests. I’m not gonna just let you just shoo me off like some kinda stray dog.”

“Warning. Lady Anje has no interest in negotiating with individuals unnecessary for tonight’s procession. Further argument will be treated as an escalation of the matter and will be swiftly dealt with.” The golem suddenly lurched forward, its helm lowered until it was within kicking distance of the terrified girls. “We will accompany the mage to the castle courtyard. Now.”

“Y-You…!” Rebecca grit her teeth, her hand instinctively shooting to the arrows jutting from her quiver. “You think I’m scared of some oversized hunk of metal? You’ll take Nino over my dead bo-“

 The girl’s voice was cut off, drowned out by the horrific screech of metal that sent what few birds were perched in Stensia’s treelines flying with terrified caws. Rebecca’s eyes clamped shut, refusing to budge even an inch should she suddenly become aware of the giant sword that almost certainly was now impaling her cleanly through the chest. Her teeth cut into her lip until she tasted blood, afraid to even breathe lest her dying cries be the last thing Nino heard. For several agonizing seconds she stood there, waiting for reality to finally catch up to her.

“Tally-hoooo!”

Only for a gallant cry to wrest her free from her stupor.

Soaring through the sky, the nimble, graceful figure of the elven vampire greeted the trembling archer’s gaze, pirouetting like an elegant faerie dancing amidst the spring breeze while driving her lance straight through the helm of the steel golem. Partway through her sixth spin, she wrenched her foot out and up, smashing her heel straight into its chestplate and sending it flying, the metal screeching in agony as Don’s lance was torn free in a splattering of shrapnel.

“Worry not, fair maiden!” the triumphant Don cheered, turning and greeting the shellshocked travelers with a curtsy. “Such devious, heinous acts shall not go unpunished while I, noble Don Quixote, chevalier extraordinaire of the company of Limbus, draw breath! These nefarious deeds shall be chased back from the dark from whence they ca-“

“Warning, Steel Watcher #56 has sustained moderate damage to helm. Active hostiles at southern road. Subduing all interlopers.”

“Eh?”

The words caught in Don’s throat as she noticed the once blazing sun illuminating her advance now obscured by shadow, the gallant winds accompanying her descent drowned out by the distinct, rushing sound of metal. Only a weighty clang saved the foolhardy blonde from being cut even shorter, the hulking greatsword of the malignant construct caught on Ishmael’s shield.

“Don, by the fucking Gate, could you at least let Yi Sang cast a spell first BEFORE you do something?” Ishmael snarled, both hands bracing against her shield as the iron buckled and splintered under the Steel Watcher’s behemoth blade. “Heathcliff, come the fuck on! My arm is literally breaking here!”

 “Will you KINDLY SHUT UP, LASS. I GOT IT!”

While neither as impressive as Don’s magnificent twirl nor Ishmael’s timely assist, the barreling charge of the half-orc barbarian was enough to divert the Steel Watcher’s attention, the golem prying its weapon free to deflect the greatsword aimed at its helmet. Breathing a sigh of relief, the redhead swung low and up, aiming at its blind spot and slamming her mace directly into what served as the golem’s thigh.

Ow!

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

Ishmael staggered back, the vigor and swagger that once accentuated her confident follow-up shattered like a thrown wine glass. She massaged her sword arm as she gaped in gnawing dread at the unphased Steel Watcher, the towering suit of living armor pushing Heathcliff back with a single nudge. Ishmael may as well have been fighting a house; she’d gotten similar results from trying to bash through brick walls with a stick.

“ISH, COME ON!” Heathcliff roared, digging his heels into the muddy trail beneath them before leaping forward.

“Do you think I didn’t try already?” she snapped, taking the hilt of her mace in both hands and winding it back before surging forward, a large step precluding a wide, sideways swing the batters in one of the Upper City’s many parks would have adored. Tragically, her target was neither a ball nor a starry-eyed purveyor of sports, blissfully ignoring the redhead’s blow as it trampled past her and matched Heathcliff’s swing with its own. The half-orc’s strength was unrivaled by all save the stoic and immovable Meursault, but at the end of the day, it was still a half-orc against a mechanized monstrosity twice his size.

One fallen tree and a dazed Heathcliff later, the unamused golem turned its attention back to Ishmael, malice practically radiating from its empty visor.

“D-Don…” Ishmael stammered, her face growing pale and slick with sweat. “How the fuck did you stagger that first one? And, uh, could you do it to this one right here?”

“Fear not, Lady Ishmael!” Don cheered, flourishing her lance as the crippled Steel Watcher from before lumbered back into view, its shorn helmet hissing with annoyance. “Virtue and honor guide my lance true! Dastardly, heartless invention of Avernus, may my brilliant radiance serve as a fitting end to your machinations!”

The Steel Watcher paused and whirred, as if taken in by the paladin’s unflinching determination. The blonde grinned, running a hand through her hair, and leapt forward, her lance outstretched. “Have at you, fiend! I smite at th-“

The lance ineffectively thunked off of the construct’s breastplate. The girl’s battle cry became little more than a feeble, awkward chuckle as she looked up at the seething suit of armor, the tip of her lance caught in its grip.

“Anti-divinity countermeasures deployed,” it chimed monotonously, raising its blade overhead. “Executing interloper.”

Perhaps in any other timeline, Don’s hubris would have left her as little more than a red stain on the pathway. Whether chosen by Fortuna herself or simply because her cosmic dice refused to ever roll a one, however, the Steel Watcher’s brutal execution was cut off by a blast of condensed ice, a miniature blizzard funneled directly into its face. Frost chilled its metallic joints, halting the blade mid-swing. A still petrified Don collapsed to the ground, pulled back by the cloaked mage that once seemed so small and so defenseless.

“Are you alright, miss?” the mage asked, small icicles still dangling from her poofy sleeves. “Sorry if you got chipped by that Cone of Cold. It was a bit of a rush job.”

“Nino, right behind you!”

On instinct, the young mage gripped her hood and pulled her head – and Don’s – down, a trio of arrows soaring over them and embedding themselves straight in the Steel Watcher’s visor. A third hand grabbed Don by the collar and hoisted her up, the once unflappable smile of the paladin now reflected on the archer’s face.

“C’mon, pleasantries’ll wait ‘til we’re outta here!” she barked, pulling the two down the path. Trailing behind them, Ishmael swore and chucked her shield at the first construct, the metallic giant staggering back either from the recoil or from complete confusion. Recovering quickly, the Steel Watcher whirred and rose its arm, a large crossbow unfolding from its wrist and leveling itself on the back of the fleeing girl.

“Cease your existence, villa-“

A barrage of ruby bolts came in retort, swooping in from the treeline and pounding the golem like a drum. Far down the path, a confident Yi Sang lowered his staff, the tip of the dark, willow wood still crackling with mana. Beside him, Rodya shook her arms, beckoning the four over. “Ishy! Wake Heath up from his beauty sleep so we can go!”

Shit. Screeching to a halt with a plume of dirt and mud, Ishmael’s attention swung back to the collapsed trees lining the road, a groaning Heathcliff pulling himself up amidst his makeshift throne of leaves and splinters. She dashed over with but two bounds, the soft whiz of a crossbow bolt causing her ears to perk up as it sailed harmlessly past her. She sighed, reaching out for-

And then the ground exploded behind her.

“They’re using fucking explosives?!” she shrieked, staring at the charred remnants of mud and grass behind her. “I didn’t think vampires dabbled in weapons of mass destruction!”

Perhaps due to the mechanized giant’s sadistic amusement or by the stroke of some sick god’s fortune, the Steel Watcher’s attention was fixated on the redhead, a second round flying toward the girl. She broke into a sprint, dropping to the ground in a haphazard slide as the familiar and now all too ominous thunk of the bolt echoed in the tree above her. Her fingers found the dirt and she wrenched herself into a roll, covering her head with her free arm even as the deafening boom of the nearby explosion sent her flying. Ishmael winced and swore as she slammed into the ground, the back of her breastplate torching her skin through her tunic. Blinking away tears, she clambered up to her feet and pulled Heathcliff out from the scorched bramble, hastily dragging him across the path.

“T-this… may have been a right ol’ shite idea,” Heathcliff gasped, his voice a low and heavy drawl. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth as he tried, rather pitifully, to run alongside Ishmael.

“When have Don’s ideas ever not been shit?” she grumbled, her eye trained on the Steel Watcher as it leveled its crossbow on the fleeing mercenaries. Now encumbered with the hulking body of the deadweight barbarian, even a nearsighted halfling could have made the shot.

Whether such a hypothetical nearsighted halfling could have accomplished such a task with a barrage of Magic Missiles and a shard of ice colliding with its face is another question entirely, but given how the bolt went wide into the air, exploding like a series of improvised fireworks, chances were that such a shot was beyond the capability of mortal kin.

“Nice one, Sangie” Rodya cheered, leaning forward on her horse like a dazzled spectator literally at the edge of her seat. The rogue’s attention shifted from the limping duo of Ishmael and Heathcliff to the fleeing trio a stone’s throw away. “Those two girls ain’t half bad either.”

As if on cue to receive Rodya’s compliments, the archer spun on her heel and shot an arrow back, its swift flight colliding with the bolt of the second construct. The two projectiles spiraled to the ground, sending a plume of heated dirt and grass flying into the air with a resounding bang. Just in front, the chivalrous Don practically galloped down the path like her beloved Rocinante made manifest, the young mage cradled in her arms even while she channeled a third shard of ice in her shaking hands. The paladin’s rosy cheeks glistened with sweat, making her smiling face glisten like a radiant star as they closed even closer in with their companions. Rodya breathed a sigh of relief and beckoned them forward once again, turning to Yi Sang and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “Y’know, if you ignore the whole pissing off a bunch of violent, murderous kill machines and basically kicking in the front door of some supposed vampire lord’s lair, I think this actually went pretty well!”

“What an optimistic way of viewing things,” Yi Sang murmured under his breath, another round of Magic Missiles orbiting around the end of his staff. “Maybe if we’re lucky, Lady Falkenrath will assume we were a bunch of overeager vandals that were repelled by these automatons.”

“Come on, Sangie, don’t be such a downer,” Rodya chuckled, playfully ruffling the Wizard’s hair. “Aren’t ya happy that for once in our lives, we finally got out of a pickle mostly unscathed?”

In an act befitting Rodya’s exemplary luck, an unassuming arrow lodged itself at their feet. Crafted from a withered oak and fletched with raven’s feathers, the ghastly projectile already bade ill-tidings even without the striking, crimson lights adorning its end, their pulsing rhythm going from a faint heartbeat to a frantic blur as the two stared, dumbstruck, at the harrowing interruption.

“… Shit!” Rodya’s eyes widened, the girl hooking Yi Sang underneath her elbow and flinging the two from their horses. “Yi Sang, get do-“

The final, frantic cry of the rogue and the wizard barely reached Ishmael’s ears, a cataclysmic explosion engulfing them and the last, fleeting escape in a plume of molten dirt and ash. Ishmael’s face went pale, the girl’s horrified vicegrip nearly snapping Heathcliff’s wrist in two. “RODYA! YI SANG!”

It was a joke, of course. Who could forget the time Gregor got buried in the den of a particularly nasty and belligerent dragon safeguarding its trove of jewels only for the Druid to clumsily stumble his way back into camp, a few burns worse for wear and a couple of gold coins richer? Or the time Sinclair and his psychopathic ex-girlfriend had tumbled down a waterfall and into the abyss only for the Warlock to literally crawl his way back over the edge, his face drenched in both water and blood. This Limbus company had a nasty habit of courting death only to escape its clutches at the last second, cracking jokes at how the ominous scythe had once against been too slow to take their necks. At any moment, Rodya and Yi Sang would stumble out of the ashes, probably a bit singed and coughing a bit but otherwise alright.

She kept telling herself this even as nothing but the smoldering embers of their ruined caravan came in reply.

No, not just the crackling bonfire. A cracking of wood and brush. Like some gloomy behemoth roused from hibernation, the towering silhouette of yet another Steel Watcher trampled through the treeline, its crossbow still raised. Its attention turned to the three girls that had been so close to escaping, both from the constructs’ encompassing pincer and from the mortal realm through a quick and fiery demise. Ishmael watched as the mage’s head lolled to the side, her body limp and motionless and her face ghastly white while her stalwart archer companion curled her in her arms, chest heaving and panting as she struggled to pull herself up from her knees. Standing above both of them, the once indomitable Don Quixote stood in sheer defiance in front of their new adversary. Blood dripped from the new gash opened across her forehead while her treasured lance shook unsteadily before her, her hands screaming at her as the faint burns across her palms protested the weapon thrust into its grip. Truthfully, it was a miracle Don could even still stand, beaten so badly that even a god’s own Chosen would have already collapsed from exhaustion.

“D-Devilish, fiendish… cur…” she gasped. She spluttered and whined, dropping once to her knee, before pulling herself up to an unsteady crouch, her hasty smile failing to disguise the pain radiating across her body. “Y-You shalt not… dare lay a finger…”

“Analysis. Combat capabilities of hostiles present at 20%.” The Steel Watcher cocked its head to the side, looking down at the bloodied Don like one would look down at a dying cockroach. “Securing hostiles for processing.”

And like swatting down at some meddlesome fly, the flat of the construct’s hulking greatsword descended on the trio, held at bay by a yelping Don as she brought her lance up to parry the blow. The wretched scraping of metal may as well have been the signal to some relentless executioner to carry out his morbid duty as the Steel Watcher, unflinchingly, raised its greatsword once again, slamming down again and again at the girl like one would hammer a particularly stubborn nail.

“Don!” Ishmael screamed, her beleaguered retreat now a desperate dash as she stumbled toward the battered blonde. Now alight from the embers of the indiscriminate explosive bolts, the once sleepy, wooded passage seemed more like a highway to hell, the heat scorching the redhead with each labored breath. As the weary, half-orc barbarian began to lag behind, she swore and scooped him up and over her shoulder, practically dragging him along like a bag of bloodied camp supplies. “Ggggh… dammit, Heathcliff, pick up the fucking pace!”

“Lass, what the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do?” he snarled, clinging to the warrior like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. “Think I… twisted my ankle or some shite.”

“Gah, fine then!” Ishmael spat, rolling her shoulders forward before taking a huge breath, a surge of adrenaline rushing through her veins. “Hold on, then. I just need to sweep up Don and-“

And make a break for the treeline, of course. They’d bandage up their wounds, nurse their wounded pride, maybe even grab the two girls if she had the time or the strength or if her lungs weren’t threatening to literally collapse. Anything. She just needed to shove the Steel Watcher off with a good smack to its head, then all five of them could make a break for the dense foliage. Then they’d find Yi Sang and Rodya sleeping on the job, maybe pour some water on that fragile twig of a wizard, and they’d all waltz into this Falkenrath castle and punch that damn vampire in the face. It was so easy, just laying it out like that.

She knew that. She fucking knew that. Yet not even a frustrated “fuck!” could clear her lips as she was suddenly pulled back, the beaten and battered Don Quixote and her two cornered escorts turning into blurred specs in the orange haze. Heathcliff’s voice was drowned out by the roar of the fire, the girl catching his widened eyes for but a moment before her face slammed into the dirt. Her fingers dug ineffectually into the ground, catching little more than mud and pebbles as she was reeled in. Only now did she notice the thin, cold wire lashed around her ankle, only now did she glance back to the ominous construct with its arm outstretched, a grappling hook shot from its wrist and wrapped around the girl’s foot.

“Target secured,” it said in its irritatingly monotone voice. “Incapacitating.”

“Get the hell off of me!” Ishmael finally yelled, fumbling for a spare dagger strapped to her belt. Her fingers frantically patted down her bloodied tunic, the mud splashing over her body, there, that familiar metal hilt. She pulled it free only to yelp as her world turned upside down, the girl flung violently in the air. She watched with widened eyes as both the dagger and her mace were wrest free from her hands, dropping to the ground beneath her. Flailing helplessly like a fish hooked on a line, she whipped her head up the wire holding her up by her ankle, shaking her head to and fro as her bloodied locks began to drape over her eyes. Her rope hairband fell loose from her head, snatched quickly on instinct as she turned to the snare wrapped around her.

“Come on…!” she spat, summoning the last reserves of her strength and pulling her body up, reaching her hands out to the silvery wire lashed around her ankle. “I almost…!”

Almost, of course. Her thoughts were fine, perfectly unblemished, even. She easily could comprehend the wire quickly moving away from her frantic fingertips, feel her body begin to accelerate as it fell back to earth, even pick out the familiar, startled cry of that flatfooted barbarian. The world around her slowed, just long enough for her gaze to shift behind her, her eyes locking with the wide-eyed barbarian still paralyzed in the middle of the road like a stupefied deer. The two seemed to approach ever so slowly, he very much could have just walked out of the way were he not so stupid. Yet, the girl thought wryly, maybe it was just the gravity of their fucked situation finally dawning on her before her body caught up. As Ishmael’s body neared Heathcliff’s, one thought finally bubbled to the surface among all others.

“… Shit.”

Then with a thundering thwack, the girl’s vision went black.

Chapter Text

Ishmael wasn’t quite sure what she was first aware of. Maybe it was the pounding headache that reminded her all too annoyingly of the alcoholic binges she’d get roped into with Rodya and Heathcliff every so often. Or, perhaps, it was her aching jaw, plaguing the girl with a persistent, throbbing pain in her cheek. She reflexively moved to open and shut her mouth, hoping to massage the weary muscles, only for her body to stubbornly refuse.

Of course it did. She always hated getting up after these long nights out, her already erratic sleep schedule worsened by a drink or three. Not even trying to blink her eyes did anything but leave her stranded in darkness. She groaned and tried to rub her eyes, only for her arms too to rebel against her groggy commands. She swore, inwardly, of course, as her tongue too was too sleepy to do anything properly, and focused on pulling her arms up to her eyes. It felt agonizing, her shoulders burning and straining as the clink of chains and steel echoed over her grumbling.

… Wait, shit.

Fuzzy images ran through her blackened vision, the fleeting visage of a forest covered in flames, a series of hulking, steel behemoths trampling the burning wood underfoot, and the world around her flying as she was thrust into the air. She shook off the fatigue with a loud grunt, biting down on her tongue so she could wake herself up from her nightmare. Only when the firm rubber soundly wedged between her teeth kept her jaw open did her predicament dawn on her.

After all, Ishmael wasn’t stupid, but unfortunately her companions were not what she would call bright. As she shook her head, she could easily feel the telltale sign of a blindfold nestled above her ears. She twisted and flexed her wrists, meeting the cold chill of metal with the slightest movement. Her toes slid across a slick, stony surface, and as she tried to pull herself up to her feet, a harsh yank forced her back down into a kneeling hogtie, her fingers anxiously stroking the back of her soles as she measured the window, or lack thereof, of movement left to her.

She could probably drum up an accurate enough picture of what she must’ve looked like right now; her wild and bloodied hair draped around her shoulders, a ballgag fastened into her mouth, her arms forcefully wrenched behind her back and her wrists and ankles connected by a length of chain probably two feet… no, scratch that, maybe barely half a foot long, forcing her into a kneeling crouch. And a blindfold for… ambience, at this point? Less stringent than the pack of cannibals they stumbled into when resting in Andale, but not quite like particularly exhibitionist taste of the average Drow in the Underdark.

She’d give a wry chuckle, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a muffled grunt. In terms of infiltrations, this was probably the third worst one she’d been involved with these idiots.

As she finally gave herself time to ruminate over her dismal, yet somehow not entirely unexpected predicament, a familiar, muffled growl caused the girl to sigh; or, at the very least, sigh as best she could with the gag between her teeth. She was completely unsurprised yet all too annoyed to learn that Heathcliff, too, had joined her in captivity. His simple-minded brute strength made springing the rest of their colleagues out of prison surprisingly straightforward. Of course, it served its own purposes when he was the one trying to break out himself, but Ishmael had an inkling that most cells accounted for brash, hulking barbarians being kept in chains. She tried to slow her breathing, wondering if she could catch the distinctive mewing of Don Quixote or the weary sighs of Rodya. There was no shortage of chains rattling, of distant cries, of the faint drip of water; but of course, everything was about as distinct as the mass of blackness covering her eyes. As the loud clang of a large, metal door cut through the morass of sounds swirling in Ishmael’s ears, the girl’s breathing froze, her ears perked as if some otherwise unintelligible whispers might provide her with more insight as to predicament. A new set of heavy footsteps joined the prison choir, the accompanying voices suddenly muted. A click of a lock caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end and the sound of a cell door screeching open caused her toes to dig fruitlessly into the stony floor.

“The other thrall’s awake now. Great.”

A finger swept across Ishmael’s cheek, causing her to flinch. An amused cackle followed a sudden burst of light as the blindfold was lifted from the girl’s face, her eyes immediately wincing as the orange glow of torches stung her dilated pupils. As she shied away from the blinding light, the fingers slid down her face and around her chin, forcing her head forward. “Hmmm, average build. Pureblood human. And her blood is… also untainted.” A tongue clicked in disapproval. “Fascinating. Truly fascinating.”

 “Mmmph…” Ishmael grunted, drool falling from her lips and down her chin rather than toward the voice like she oh so wished she could do were the gag not filling her mouth. Her eyes adjusted to a dimly lit, almost claustrophobic prison cell, the searing light that greeted her once blinding eyes in fact a trio of dancing lights, orbiting around its caster. Bathed in white illumination, the figure holding Ishmael’s head in his hand grinned, a set of pointed, white teeth reflecting her widening eyes. His hair was thin wisps combed back to sharp and overly formal cut, his nose stout and short, slightly crumpled as though it’d been beaten one too many times, while his skin, freakishly pale, was unnaturally unblemished, as though the very pores of his skin had been sanded off. Catching Ishmael’s eye most of all were his eyes, a deep, vibrant scarlet, pulsing with an unnatural, unholy energy.

The very type she’d seen in Don Quixote as the girl straddled her that one fateful night in camp, caked in blood, her fangs beared in bloodlust.

“Ew, you’re getting your drool all over me,” the vampire spat, quickly pulling his hand away and rubbing the saliva off on Ishmael’s shoulder. Her eyes followed his hand as it flapped back and forth, trying to cleanse itself of the filth that the redhead had (involuntarily) dripped all over him.  Only now did she see her bare arms lashed tightly behind her, her feet shackled together, her body exposed save for her undergarments which, she now painfully admitted, left little to the imagination. Her face, too, now matched the red hue of the vampire’s eyes as she thrashed violently in her restraints, her embarrassment feeding into her newfound, indignant fury. She could only throw out wild speculation for the peculiar manner of their incarceration; maybe their captors found the enchantments of her steel plate and the accompanying undershirt too threatening to leave a mere human with. Maybe all vampires from Stensia just happened to be exhibitionist perverts. She made a mental note to pose the question to the next vampire she ran into before bludgeoning him to death with her mace.

“My, what a feisty little pet you have here,” he jeered, backpedaling away from the girl as she pulled helplessly against her restraints, a string of colorful curses muffled behind her gag. “Why is it that she’s still so… innocent? Ah, were you preparing her for some feast? Or were you operating under that antiquated belief that the quarry tastes better unblemished?”

The girl slowed her struggles, her icy glare masking her confusion at the vampire’s words. As she noticed the vampire’s gaze slightly offset, she flicked her eyes over to follow his gaze. Just within arm’s reach, a seething Heathcliff was similarly stripped and restrained, his wrists and ankles reddened from what must’ve been hours of unsuccessfully straining against the metal. His eyes met Ishmael’s and he nodded, a silent “fuck” shared between the two of them. Still, his eyes weren’t on Heathcliff, but rather to his right, toward the floor.

Ishmael’s fists tightened, her gaze now on a crestfallen Don Quixote. Similarly stripped of her armor and the clothing underneath, particular care was given toward the paladin’s incarceration. Unlike the kneeling Ishmael and Heathcliff, the blonde was flipped over on her stomach, a series of ropes tightly pinning her arms to her back and her elbows together while a set of manacles locked her wrists together. Her legs were similarly bound with rope from thigh to knee to calf, a matching set of shackles around her ankles while an insultingly short chain tethered her ankles to her wrists, pulling her legs up and arching her back in what must have been a painful hogtie. Her toes curled and uncurled, her two big toes bound together with a ghoulishly red metal. Don’s head weakly rose to meet their captor, her eyes a dull bronze, while drool leaked from the ballgag strapped into her mouth.

Confusion flashed across Ishmael’s face as she looked back at Don’s feet before turning back to the elf’s defeated expression. The enchanted boots that repressed her vampiric nature were clearly stripped from her. Yet, despite the excessive care spent toward her restraints, she seemed… more pathetic than usual. She seemed less like the enigmatic vampire that hid behind a daredevil persona and more like a beaten little sister with the life wrung out of her.

If thoughts could be converted into strength, Ishmael would have torn through her chains right then and there and strangled the vampire in front of them.

“I wonder, my cute little princess. What exactly do you expect to get out of playing with your food so? Do you think it’s funny to so brazenly cavort with the cattle? It’s quite demeaning for someone of the Quixote line to act so foolishly.” The vampire’s hand slid under Don’s chin and forced her head up, bringing her face level with his. She grunted and winced, her body flopping haplessly about like a fish on a hook. “Personally, I think it’s disgusting that you’d roll around in the muck and filth like this. A race traitor like you is lower than pond scum.”

“Mmmph gmmmmph!” Bound and restrained as he was, the menacing, hateful aura exuded from the half-orc was enough to give the vampire pause, if only for a moment. He acknowledged both the barbarian and the glaring warrior with a disdainful sneer, a small litter of mewing kittens gathering around their rabid stray of a mother. Shifting his grip to Don’s neck, she turned the girl around so she could meet the fiery gazes of her companions,

right before the vampire slammed his boot into Heathcliff’s face.

“Mmmmph!” Don cried, kicking and squirming in her restraints like a hooked fish.

“Disgusting, wretched creatures, these two are,” the vampire mused, eyeing the blood that gushed from Heathcliff’s broken nose with scorn. Not skipping a beat, he turned and did the same to Ishmael, sending the girl reeling to the ground with a muffled yell. The blonde’s eyes widened, the girl haplessly rubbing her head against the vampire’s neck in what might’ve been some sad and pathetic excuse for a headbutt. “I can’t fathom why you keep these two as your little pets. They’d hardly serve as a good snack, let alone as acceptable thralls.”

“Mmmmmmmph!” Don fixed her eyes on the vampire as though sheer force of will would twincast Disintegrate on the asshole’s face. Much to her chagrin, his pale, smirking visage remained quite intact and very much not melted. He tilted his head, drinking in the seething hatred from the girl.

“Ah, something wrong? You look like you’re trying to be intimidating, like you’re truly a pureblooded vampire and not some ungrateful wretch playing in the dirt with the cattle.”

He dropped Don to the ground with an ignoble thump, the girl wincing as her body rattled from the impact with no easy way to break her fall. The vampire followed her down with a crouch, running a finger down the sole of her foot. “How queer it was to see one of the last heirs of the Quixote family show up at our doorstep, shackled with an anti-vampiric enchantment, at that. Loathe as we are to partake in such heretical magics, our own mages didn’t take long to replicate this spell.”

His finger stopped short of the scarlet ring that held Don’s two toes together. “I imagine you must be happy, sharing in your pets’ pathetic little predicament. Must be some fantastical delusion you have to willingly forsake the gifts of your own blood.”

He rose, adjusting the collar on his garishly puffy shirt, before turning to leave. “I thought the one mage girl alone would be enough to complete Mistress Anje’s coronation. Such a delightful treat of mana would have been a savory delicacy for us. However, the magnanimous Mistress has asked we send a gift to the Quixote clan as thanks. Even an ungrateful child like yourself and her two failed spawns will make a fantastic offering to ring in the new era of the Falkenrath dynasty.”

“Mmmmmmmph!”
“Gmmmmpph!”
“Mmph! Mmmmmmmmmph!”

Caked in sweat and with half of her face awash in blood, Ishmael slowly wormed herself up back up to her knees, trying to force her body forward so that, if anything else, she could smash the vampire’s face in with her own head and somehow free the others. Her efforts barely made more than a centimeter’s worth of progress, the flailing warrior and barbarian reduced to little more than pitiful little sentries to accompany their disgraced paladin. The vampire yawned as he knelt back down, sliding the blindfolds back onto Heathcliff and Don. Try as Ishmael could to pull her head away, she could do little to escape the vampire’s grasp as it enclosed around her chin, holding her still until her world was once again covered in blackness.

“Well, I must join the others in preparing for the Mistress’s celebratory feast. You three should be honored; we’ll be killing all three of you first at first toast. It’ll be quite a riot, I’m sure.”

Ishmael’s strident, spiteful, and ultimately muffled curse fell on deaf ears, her gagged screams drowned out by the cell door slamming shut. Her shoulder sagged and her head dropped as she mulled over what plans could potentially bail them out of this predicament. Perhaps, if she was lucky, Yi Sang and Rodya weren’t in fact scorched stains on the dirt path and they were working to rescue her right now. Or maybe Faust would ride in with the rest of the company and gallantly swoop in to save all three of them.

Or, if she was mulling over completely fantastical options at this point, maybe a group of wandering adventurers on their way to stop an Elder Brain would stumble into this castle purely of their own volition, free the lot of them, and throw Anje into a ravine for good measure.

After all, a bunch of fanciful delusions seemed much better than internally writing out her will.

A distinct, uncharacteristic gaiety embraced the otherwise sullen walls of Castle Falkenrath, tinting its bleak, obsidian stone with a shade of bliss and elation. The somber and hallowed halls were filled with chatter and gossip, a childish, anticipatory glee embracing both the vampiric nobility and their scurrying thralls. The many visitors in attendance drank in the revelry, leisurely chatting away with the locals despite their pallid skin and their glimmering, crimson eyes, while a select few, keeping into the reclusive alcoves and the many, many tables lining the labyrinthian hallways and corridors, stuck to their vintage wine glasses. A hushed whisper or two from a hurried maid or a drunken noble softened the lines of an anxious dwarven merchant, while a furtive elf perked her ears up, taken in by the wonderous rumors that served as a trim on an already extravagant party.

For it was neither the long-awaited ascendancy of Anje Falkenrath, maiden of madness, that caught the waggling tongues of the gossiping vampires, nor was it the opulence of her celebrations that some kingdoms’ coronations look downright feudal, nor was it even the myriad of guests far and wide, a smattering of merchants, of scholars, of diplomats, of both bored and excitable nobles alike come to bear witness to a new vampiric ruler to lead the once shunned race into a new, golden age.

No, rather it was the new, main attraction that enraptured the guests, for the rogue Quixote princess, a savage vampire that hid amongst non-humans and slowly gutted them from within, was apprehended by the Falkenrath’s most noble of retainers as she preyed upon innocent travelers wandering into Stensia. Their feast would be celebrated with a show of good faith as they planned to parade the girl and her two thralls through the castle, marking the triumph of the new Falkenrath rule.

And to kick off the banquet, they would personally execute the girl for all to see.

Rumors floated among visitor and vampire alike, a collection of treats that many of the guests eagerly feasted on even while the minutes ticked away until the extravagant ceremony. One painted the Quixote princess as a heinous, villainous schemer, weaseling her way into the good graces of humble hamlets and Baldurian royalty alike, all so she could stab them in the back. Another, a bloodthirsty berserker who tore unsuspecting travelers limb from limb while her retainers, lost to their bloodlust, dragged victims to her kicking and screaming to be devoured. Many tried to spy a glance into the castle’s darkest dungeons so as to get a personal look at the monster the Falkenrath’s royal guard had personally brought to heel, only for the guards to keep them from their own folly, lest the girl enthrall them to do their bidding.

A pensive drow furrowed her brow as she listened in on the latest of the rumors, the girl brazenly adopting the title of some far off noble house after she had ruthlessly butchered them and their kin. “Don Quixote,” she called herself so flippantly. The maid whispering the rumor shook her head, grimacing with disgust as the mental image of the pallid, elven paladin, smirking so confidently even while drenched in the blood of innocents, filled her mind. She tapped her feather duster against her head, the frilled headpiece tilting off of her brunette hair as she tried to knock the image out of her subconscious. “But at the very least, Mistress Falkenrath has ensured this girl will never again harm another innocent.”

“Huh, that’s quite the story,” the drow replied, her fingers curiously stroking her chin. “By the by, you’re still… human, I think. You don’t look like some of the other vampires I’ve seen here.”

“O-Oh,” the maid blushed, rubbing the back of her head. Her legs nervously crossed and uncrossed, her eyes darting to the side. “I, well, my parents sold me off to the prior Master Falkenrath. B-But I have no qualms about Mistress Falkenrath. She’s never once tried t-to turn me or feed on me or anything. She’s truly a role model for all vampires.”

“Is that so?” the drow continued, leaning back into the garishly gilded chair. Her golden eyes caught the slightest tremble in the maid’s legs, while her pointed ears perked up, as if catching the slight falsetto in her voice. The maid cleared her throat suddenly, straightening herself and giving a polite curtsy.

“My apologies, I-I should go. I still need to prepare the turkey for the feast.”

And just like that, the maid briskly walked off, practically melting into the crowd. The drow sighed and rolled her eyes, plucking a small apple from the many, many baskets of fruit laid out among the house. Party favors, to sate the visitors until the opening act could properly commence. The fruit was crisp, juicy, not the slightest imperfection nor the faintest hint of magic interlaced in its white insides. The drow closed her eyes and leaned back, opening one to address her colleague. A stocky, mute dwarf, beard half the size of his diminutive stature, whose eyes did nothing but fly from individual to individual, meticulously dissecting each and every individual in the hopes that one may betray further intelligence.

“They’ve got quite the words for little Donqui, huh?” the drow said, her thin lips pressing together in an annoyed frown. “Shame none of them have any for where she’s being held.”

“I thought perhaps the lingering animosity between vampires and the oppressed population of Stensia may provide us with some fellow compatriots with which we could solicit some information from,” the dwarf replied, the lines across his forehead growing with worry. “But now I see that this Anje has subdued even the lowliest of her staff. Any spark of rebellion surely must lie only with in the recesses of the dungeon which we seek.” He shot his eyes toward the drow. “Have you ascertained the location of the dungeon, by any chance, Rodya?”

“Mmmm, I got nothing, Sangie,” Rodya replied, gnawing on her apple like a squirrel slowly whittling away at an acorn. “So far from all the guys who gave us the time of day, I’m looking for a heavily guarded door off of one of the side hallways that leans to a staircase going down.” She shrugged, throwing her free hand up in exasperation. “Do you have the slightest idea how little that narrows it down?”

“These polymorphed skins should last indefinitely, at least, so long as I avoid rigorous strain on my part,” Yi Sang replied, turning his hand back and forth. Every so often, his concentration would break as his gaze drifted back to his own self, the callous, leathery palms on his lap a far cry from his usual, wiry frame.

“Speaking of, Sangie, you sure you’re alright?” Rodya asked, plucking another apple from the basket and tossing it over to Yi Sang. “You were quite banged up after we took that tumble into a ditch.”

“A mere Seeming takes little effort on my part to maintain,” he replied, waving off her concerns. “For now, our priority should be to ascertain the whereabouts of Don Quixote, Ishmael, and Heathcliff, then extricate them from their predicament.”

“And the captives too, right?”

Yi Sang paused, his lips pursing in consternation. “We are not in an ideal position to take grave risks without risking a greater consequence to our companions.”

“And you know Donqui wouldn’t forgive you if got her out and then left everyone else to rot.”

Yi Sang’s polymorphed countenance grimaced, Rodya’s retort stabbing him square in the heart. Their situation had dramatically worsened since entering the castle, and no doubt lingering would only exasperate it further. The ideal solution, rolling around in the back of his head, would be to tactfully retreat, inform Faust of the ongoing catastrophe, and roll in with the rest of Limbus company to thoroughly dismantle Anje’s forces and rescue Don and the others. However, the rather publicized and celebrated execution of Don, Ishmael, and Heathcliff couldn’t simply be ignored, lest the rest of the group come to retrieve three decapitated corpses.

The downside, of course, would be that instead Faust would simply arrive at Stensia to retrieve five decapitated corpses should their predicament truly spiral out of control, but what was the fun of adventure without a little peril every now and then?

His eyes drifted from Rodya, the drow already parsing over a haphazardly scribbled map of what she’d hoped resembled the first floor of the castle, to the ongoing stream of guests and vampires flowing past. Amidst the murmurs, the rumors, the excitable chatter as people clamored for whatever new gossip illustrated the tyrant Don’s crimes, he picked out a particularly smarmy vampire. A cold sweat formed across the back of his neck as he saw the vampire wildly gesticulate, his hair a white only seen in the most wizened of mages back at the Academy, while his mouth ran far too fast for him to easily discern his words. Amidst the rapid barrage of words, he picked out “Quixote” and “girl” and “brute.” A faint smile spread over Yi Sang’s face as he moved to grab Rodya’s attention.

And then he froze. “Missing.” “Two.” “Intruders.”

“Rodya,” he said curtly, a sharp urgency undercutting Yi Sang’s impassive calm.

“… They’ve finally picked up on us, huh?” Rodya said, biting her lip. The girl grabbed Yi Sang’s wrist, yanking the dwarf up from his chair and pulling both of them into the mass of people shuffling about aimlessly. She stood on her toes, restlessly skimming from the top of the guests’ heads until she spied the vampires Yi Sang mentioned already. A Disguise Self could be broken with the most basic of cursory divining spells, meaning that it was only the common courtesy the Falkenraths showed to their guests that safeguarded their identities. A courtesy, Rodya noted, that was quickly being discarded as the vampires began to comb through the hallway. Her tactful footsteps quickened, her slippery weaving becoming more than anxious shoving as she and Yi Sang moved to distance themselves from the oncoming vampires.

“Hold.”

Rodya froze midstep, forcing a pained smile across her face as she turned to the voice. She found it somewhat ironic that, despite being quite human, she felt like she was the one being impaled with a stake. Much like the rest of the Falkenrath vampires that patrolled the halls, the one that gripped her shoulder was sharply dressed, spoke with an air of regal elegance, and practically paralyzed the girl with her blood red eyes.

“H-Hello there,” Rodya said quickly, her voice cracking only briefly before returning to its typical, lackadaisical nature. “Apologies, miss, but I’m in a hurry.”

“I saw,” she said, turning to the dwarf practically being dragged around by the hurried drow. “You and your friend seem rather anxious. Excited about the Quixote girl’s execution, are we?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” the rogue replied, cracking a smile. She felt the muscles on her face strain, her mind praying to as many deities as it could think of in those fleeting seconds that her half-heartedness wasn’t too apparent. “She sounds like quite the asshole.”

“Sounds like?” the vampire cocked her head inquisitively to the side, looking over the drow like some delicious morsel. Rodya’s smile grew wider, grinding her teeth until they practically split in two. “She’s been quite the terror here in Stensia and the Sword Coast. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from her.”

“I’m actually a delegation from… Orzammar.” Rodya hurriedly nodded her head, pulling Yi Sang close and up like some prop. “My lord here is from House… Blevin, a close relative of the newly anointed High King. We heard of the unbridled and overflowing benevolence of Mistress Falkenrath and wanted to observe her ascension on behalf of my lords.”

“Orzammar, hm?” the vampire pursed her lips, her gaze shifting to Yi Sang like a serpent deciding which of the two delectable fruits to begin devouring first. “Isn’t that from the northernlands? I didn’t think your lot cared about what happened down here.”

“I-we must keep abreast of the ongoing political developments throughout the land, of course,” Rodya added with a chuckle. “After all, I-“

“And your lordship here,” the vampire continued, flashing a set of polished, gleaming fangs. “He’s rather quiet.”

Yi Sang went deathly pale. Rodya quickly scooted in front of him, patting the dwarf on the head like some obedient pup. “You’ll have to forgive my lord. He’s… quite the sheltered bookworm, in fact. Doesn’t speak a lick of Common.”

“Really, now?” the vampire purred, fixing her crimson eyes on the dwarf. “Is he mute, though? I haven’t heard a single lick from him at all.”

Rodya bit her lip, an exceedingly short list of excuses cycling through her head. Though she lacked the same silver tongue as Hong Lu, her quick wit and quicker mouth managed to talk down all but the nosiest of sentries. The same could not be said of Yi Sang, a man so devoid of a poker face that one could practically divine his hand at cards simply by staring him down for a few seconds. Rodya was all too aware that Yi Sang would snap under the slightest bit of pressure like a brittle twig, and even more painfully aware of the vampire that coiled around the duo, ravenously craving the thick and enticing scent of blood in the air.

“Herunya.”

Rodya flinched, a third voice practically splashing cold water on her with its unwanted intrusion. She nearly snapped her neck turning to meet the newcomer, an elf with porcelain skin so pale she may as well have been another vampire, the faint redness in her cheeks and her quite innocuous, emerald eyes serving as the only relief in the otherwise tense exchange. Plainly dressed in a cloak dyed in dull viridian with a hood tactfully covering the top of her head and approaching a height Rodya could swear didn’t even match the diminutive Sinclair, the elf addressed the dwarf with a nod, her thin lips curled in an overly formal smile. “Peantanyar, le-hehtanen i şangasse. Ma nalye faila?”

With an oddly familiar nod, Yi Sang replied, “Qui maita úite, rie nat úite. Mecin, áme care.”

The elf curtsied, a glimpse of her green hair poking out from underneath the hood. “Nauvan laitienya, herunya.”

Rodya’s fingernails dug into Yi Sang’s wrist as she eyed the elf warily, their enigmatic newcomer nodding before turning to the vampire pinning them in place. Her voice was odd, something Rodya would describe as “honey,” nonsensical as it was, yet the sweetness in her voice carried over to her Common. “My apologies. My lord is quite weary from our journey south. We traveled many a moon and many a sun to arrive here before the festivities.”

“A drow and an elf accompanying a dwarf?” the vampire said with a hiss, her face scrunching up with poorly concealed suspicion. “I thought Orzammar was quite hostile to outsiders.”

“It is, lady Úmar,” she said with a solemn bow and salute. “I am but a lowly scout hired by his lordship here. As Lady Erika here said, his lordship is still quite unfamiliar with Stensia, let alone the various political machinations of the Sword Coast. I’ve cautioned him not to speak unnecessarily to the locals; we wouldn’t want to cause a faux pas.”

“… Your kind is all the same, isn’t it?” the vampire said, her voice a low growl.

“I live only to serve, hére uruhtien,” the elf replied nonchalantly.

The vampire narrowed her eyes, Rodya almost certain she was mulling over whether she could get away with ripping the intrusive elf’s throat out in front of their guests. The vampire straightened herself, cracked her knuckles, and, all but sticking her nose up, stormed off. Were Rodya to have her way, she’d have collapsed like a sack of bricks right then and there, the suffocating aura draining all the air from her lungs. She sighed and turned her gaze to the elf, their mysterious associate turning to Yi Sang and smirking. “To be honest, that was a shot in the dark. Quenya is quite a dead branch of Sylvan and a bunch of the loan words don’t help either.”

“You have quite the colorful vocabulary yourself,” Yi Sang observed, stifling a chuckle. “If our interrogator was privy to this tongue, I doubt none of us would be having this conversation.”

“Yeah, well, guess I was lucky enough that we got someone rather dim. Now come on, you two.”

Rodya’s brow furrowed. “Come on? Where? You haven’t even-“

“Look, Miss Drow,” the elf interjected, her voice sharp and quite devoid of her elegant accent. “That shit’ll work like once. I’m surprised it worked at all. You wanna talk, let’s do it somewhere a bit quieter. And away from prying ears.”

Rodya and Yi Sang shared a glance. Several words came to mind: Suspicion. Ambush. Blatantly obvious trap. The sentiment was clearly etched across their faces, yet at the same time neither could clearly articulate why someone that was clearly trying to lure them into an ambush would simultaneously ward off the guards clearly hunting for them. Perhaps they’d lucked out and discovered a secret confidant amidst the hive of scum and villainy the two found themselves in the thick of.

And maybe while Rodya was in that headspace, she’d stumble upon the entirety of Stensia’s net worth in some unlocked chest.

Rodya’s eyes wandered up, lingering on the vampires still combing the guests behind them. If pressed against a wall, she fancied her odds against some random elf that exhibited no obvious signs of vampirism over the very clearly vampiric and very clearly antagonistic goons actively hunting for them. With a cautious, yet quite resigned nod, she gestured to the elf, the three quickly disappearing into the crowd.

As Yi Sang slipped through the door, the elf nudged it closed, the knob clicking shut with a tap of her finger. Rodya’s hand lingered over the hilt of her dagger as she surveyed the small room the three now found themselves in. It was certainly larger than a closet but to say it was a room would be stretching the definition of what she considered a “room.” At best, if she, Yi Sang, Ishmael, Don, and Heathcliff all crammed themselves inside, the remaining space would just be enough to chase off the feeling of claustrophobia. … Just enough, though. If any assassins were lying in wait, they’d have to be invisible or completely microscopic to hide themselves among the sparingly few chairs propped against the wall or under the small table in the middle of the room. It was, for all intents and purposes, an unassuming room, still wreathed in the luxurious paints that decorated the castle’s interiors, but otherwise nothing truly interesting.

Her attention focused then to their new companion, who cocked an eyebrow as the rogue fixated on her. “Relax, alright? If I was going to kill you, do you think I’d seriously wait this long to have my friends gut you two?”

“I dunno,” Rodya said with a shrug, fingers anxiously brushing against the dagger’s hilt. “Maybe you’re just shit at your job.”

“Uh-huh,” the elf said, clearly unintimidated. “You can drop the Seeming, by the by. A drow accompanying a dwarf is already stretching the lengths of credulity, but if you’re telling me a dwarf is fluent in a half-dead progenitor of Sylvan, then I’m a lich.”

Rodya opened her mouth to protest, only for a rush of energy to wash over her. She quickly glanced at her hands, human once more, and sighed, her numerous complaints to an easily pacified Yi Sang dying on her lips. “Right, well, where I’m from, names are a good icebreaker. I’m Rodya, and my friend here is Yi Sang.”

“Eleccia,” the elf replied curtly, curtsying. “Judging from your awful history of Orzammar, I’m guessing you’re not here to brown nose the mistress of this dump. Here for the Quixote vampire?”

Rodya flinched, nearly wrenching her dagger free from her belt. “How-“

“Hey, in case you forgot, you pretty much freaked out the second one vampire mentioned how some of that vampire’s companions didn’t turn up dead outside the castle walls,” she said with a snort, crossing her arms. “And hey, two suspicious idiots lumbering about inside the castle? Even an amateur could probably sus you out.”

“Hmph,” Rodya huffed, falling into a defensive crouch. “Alright, then. Why stick your neck out for us?”

“Convenience. Mutual goals too, I suppose,” Eleccia replied with a bored shrug. “Like you, I’m also here to see what’s going on here in this little closed off backwater. I need to see if my Father and the rest of the counsel need to take an active role in dealing with some vampiric rats getting a little too uppity outside of their swamp here. It seems like this Anje lady’s being quite a lot looser now that she’s readying to throw your Quixote girl under the bus, which makes things a bit easier for me.”

The elf smiled, a devilish expression that would’ve chilled even a vampire’s blood. “I imagine a bit of confusion’ll make my job even easier too.”

“It can’t be that cute though,” Rodya shot back, matching the elf with a sharp glare. “Was your plan just to bail us out only to ask us to piss off every single vampire from here to Baldur’s Gate?”

“I mean, you’ll certainly do that if you try to spring your friend from captivity,” Eleccia replied, her voice a meticulous, calculating calm compared to the irritable Rodya. “If it makes you feel better, though, I imagine that she and her two retainers or whatever are going to be marched around the castle pretty shortly, though, so you’ll have all the time in the world to launch whatever crazy little plan you’re dreaming up.”

“Now?” Rodya leaned in, her anticipation tinged with a hint of worry. “What makes you say now?”

“’Cause I looked outside,” the elf said, procuring a small scroll and tossing it over to the rogue. She snatched and unfurled it, her mouth twisting in bewilderment as she tried to decipher the scribblings hastily scrawled over the parchment. Eleccia plopped down into one of the small chairs lining the wall, an inscrutable smirk spreading over her face as she watched Rodya fail to parse the document. “The glyphs are this dead language, Kozakuran. Back a couple of moons there was this whole incident over in the Upper City of Baldur’s Gate, some conclave of vampires trying to ascend one of their own into some invincible spawn of the night. Fell through due to some infighting but the lord apparently was quite the neurotic individual and had a bit of literature written on his plans.”

The elf crossed her legs, as if waiting for applause from some her reluctant audience. Yi Sang’s quiet, muffled cough came in reply, the wizard giving a meek smile as the rogue still tried to decipher the Common scribbles that annotated the scroll’s otherwise incomprehensible gibberish. Eleccia sighed and continued. “What you have there is a brief sketch I did of some enchantment work I saw done in the courtyard. The ritual circle being laid out is a crude imitation, honestly I think if the Szarrs saw this work they would…” The girl’s words trailed off, acutely aware that her rambling was falling on deaf ears. “Anyway, imperfect as it is, it should be just potent enough to, say, sap an insolent vampire of her lifeforce and feed it into another’s.”

Finally a reaction, as Rodya’s looked up at the elf’s with concern. Eleccia giggled, waving her off. “So yeah, the execution is theatrics in a way. The way it looks, she probably intended to use these ritual circles to try and leech off of other creatures, but I think the best she’ll do is accidentally explode them into a bunch of chunks. Bit of dumb luck she even stumbled onto a vampire she’d have no qualms in turning into slurry.”

“How helpful,” Rodya said curtly, making for the door. “Yi Sang, come on, we need to find Don before-“

“Relax, I said,” the elf said, jumping up from her chair. “You hear it, right?’

An unnerving silence settled over the room. No, not pure silence, rather a dull hum and the shallow, muted breaths of the wizard in the corner. And, just barely off in the distance, the faint sound of footsteps, of cheers, and the rumbling of wood and stone suddenly assuaged by a deluge of footsteps.

“See, there’s one more thing about this ritual,” the elf continued, snatching the parchment from Rodya’s hands and tracing her finger along the outline of the seven-pointed starry glyph. “And judging from what I’ve managed to hear from the grapevine, I think you’re gonna be part of a quite exclusive club of people who ware privy to the details behind this whole eventful little ritual.”

Don was lucky.

That’s the thought that ran through Ishmael’s head as she was roughly dragged about the winding hallways of the castle. Her face was flushed a brilliant red as she felt the captivated stares of vampire and visitor alike fall on her. Of course, it made no sense to adorn a prisoner awaiting execution in her enchanted gear. Or in any type of adornment, to be fair. She, begrudgingly, understood this, protected from the prying eyes of many a spectator by her underwear which she prayed to every single deity she could think up to not snag on some stray nail or rock.

She’d share some choice words, either with her captor holding the chains secured to her collar or to the many whistling at the pleasurable sight before them, but the gag securely nestled between her teeth kept her thoughts sourly muffled. It did little to stop Heathcliff, of course, the half-orc practically pulling on his chains and aggressively lashing out at any who got too close like some rabid dog that was muzzled for his own safety.

Of course, the sight was far less pathetic compared to Don, the paladin draped over the guard’s shoulder like a sagging bag of rice. Drool dripped from her lips, the gag keeping her quite silent, while the blindfold hid her empty, golden eyes. As the girl was oh so clearly too important to have to walk like the rest of the plebians, her feet remained shackled, her wrists and ankles connected with a thin, short chain that no doubt must’ve caused her arms to feel like they were dislodging from her shoulders at that point. The toecuffs simmered with an ethereal, scarlet glow, the sight both entrancing the redhead yet filling her with a sense of unease. She lacked the magical eloquence of Yi Sang or Sinclair, but if she had to explain it, it would be as though her beloved Rocinante drained her life force rather than suppressing it.

Of course, a lethargic and blindfolded Don was not subject to the embarrassment wrought by the eyes gathered around her. In that way, she was lucky.

Again, her fingers blindly fumbled at the steel locked around her wrists to no avail, her dragging steps earning her only a sharp yank from the collar tightly gripping her neck. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for; the chains appeared to be solid iron on inspection, yet popped open and snapped shut with a tap of a finger. Magic, probably. Maybe a Knock spell or some other type of transmutation. Once she was back at the lodge with the others, maybe she really would take up Yi Sang’s offer to pick up the rudimentary basics of magic.

You know, assuming that she didn’t find her head locked into a guillotine at the end of this adventure.

A whirlwind of thoughts swirled around in Ishmael’s head as she trudged along, moaning and grunting and practically ready to scream her head off if the gag would afford her anything beyond a muffled, pitiful yelp. Yes, the situation was bad, but it wasn’t that bad. It’s not like she was being pinned down by some blood-starved vampire, or dragged under by some addled, bloodthirsty shark, or waking up in the middle of a spider web in some ill-begotten cave because she had the temerity to take a breather on some bench in the middle of a temple.

Like okay, this was probably in the top ten of shittiest situations she’d found herself in, but this wasn’t, like, in the top five. The answer was simple, clearly; just trip the vampire holding the leash to her collar, crush his neck, maybe wriggle out of the handcuffs while she was there, take the nearby vase and smash it over the vampire lounging to the right before she tried to secure the insolent prisoner, then just grab Don and Heathcliff and “quietly” sneak their way back into the dungeon. Grab the equipment, free the prisoners, shove a stake down the Anje girl’s throat, easy. Could probably do it in record time, too. She flexed her wrists and tested the manacles binding her arms behind her. Solid, of course. Her eyes warily lingered on the vampire parading the three captives, then to the myriad of guards and guests and voyeuristic creeps alike. So long as she took the vampire down in three seconds, then pulled Heathcliff up to his feet and hauled Don down the corridor, they could easily escape before the crowd could even pull themselves together.

Or maybe all three of them get hogtied as their right to what little movement was afforded to them was rescinded until their execution.

She brushed the thought off. No point in lingering on the doubts, the despair, the gnawing feeling at the back of her head. Breathe, Ishmael. Just go for it and get the vampire before he knows what hit him. Just relax; don’t consider the failure, the agonizing consequences, the fangs sinking deep into her side and draining her body dry like some exotic drink. Her heart, already pounding from the stress, now ached with every heartbeat, imagining the excruciating pain of having each drop of blood siphoned from her body.

She was not going to die in some fucking backwater in the middle of a vampire coven. She simply wouldn’t. She refused to believe that her last moments would be spent in embarrassing squalor and ridicule before the polished blade of a guillotine severed her head from her body.

… Right?

She shook her head. No matter what torture, what debasement, what incomprehensible torture she’d suffer in her hopeless position, she outright refused to give any of these fuckers the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Again, she paid no heed to the thoughts that chipped away at her wavering resolve, eyes locked on the vampire as he drew to a stop, his attention taken by another. Sunken cheeks, red eyes, wispy black hair, the second vampire that drew the guard’s attention was markedly older, his eyes settling on the fiery redhead before turning away. She longed to bash her head into both of them if it would accomplish anything more than giving her a splitting headache. The second vampire flashed some scroll, wildly waving some silvery object in her hand. A scalpel, recently disinfected, its sharp point practically shimmering in the castle’s candlelight. The second vampire traced his wizened, wrinkled hand across Don’s back before referring back to the scroll.

It was a miracle Ishmael didn’t chew through her gag there and then. “Livid” would be an understatement to describe the seething hatred that practically permeated every fiber of the girl’s body, a rage kept at bay only by the restraints holding her back from strangling the two of them there and then. She tugged at the cuffs binding her wrists and pulled at the collar tethering her to her captor, trying to decide exactly in what way she would shove her foot into the vampire’s face even as the second vampire artfully traced a pattern along Don’s exposed back, all the while gesturing to the scroll in his possession. The all too eager guard followed the second like some dutiful puppy, dragging along a steaming Ishmael and a seething Heathcliff as the five tore through the crowd, the second vampire ushering them into a small back room, scalpel in hand. The girl took in a deep breath, feeling the eyes once locked on her all melt away behind the ornate door until it was only the five of them and a sixth sat quietly in the corner. Her toes gripped the carpet, her knees bent, and she readied to smash her shoulder directly into the back of the vampire, come what may. She felt the gag buckle in her jaw as she bit down, ready to-

And then the second vampire whirled around and punched the first vampire in the face.

Chapter Text

Rodya winced as she heard bone crack under her fist, not quite sure if it was the vampire’s nose breaking or her own fingers. She’d heard vampires were sturdier than normal people, but for a brief, fleeting moment, it really did feel like she’d just punched a brick wall with her fist and expected to come out on top. The vampire staggered back, carefully massaging his broken nose, before drawing a blade nestled at his side.

Fuck. Rodya hoped that maybe the vampire might pause, if only to yell some expletive at her. Deftly, her own dagger came in response, parrying the first and second swipe before the rogue cartwheeled away from the third. The vampire’s savage blow hit naught but air as he staggered forward, directly into the waiting arms of Yi Sang’s Magic Missile. The three crimson bolts blasted the vampire to the floor, the saber clattering across the ground. His widened, reddened eyes were bloodshot and frenzied, his snarling visage shoving off his fangs for the vermin that had scurried under the floorboards only to lure him into a trap. His hands pressed against the floor and-

then Ishmael slammed her heel into the vampire’s face.

“Gnnnnnnnnph!” the vampire howled in pain, blood gushing from his nose and mouth as he clawed wildly at Ishmael’s ankle. The girl tactfully jumped back before slamming her foot down again like an executioner’s axe, met with a meaty thump as her skin was coated red with blood. The vampire writhed and attempted to skitter away, only for Heathcliff to slam his foot on the vampire’s back and pin him to the ground. Rodya winced as the small room was filled with what she figured was the vampire’s vertebrae snapping one after the other and, sheathing her dagger, she mulled over whether she should intervene before Ishmael and Heathcliff pummeled the vampire into a bloody pulp.

Of course, by the time she moved to stop them, the disfigured, heaving, quivering sack of meat in the middle of the room could barely be made out to be humanoid, let alone a vampire of all things. Ishmael heaved a sigh of relief as she and Heathcliff collapsed to the ground, the former looking up at a smirking Rodya. “Mmmph?”

“Oh, nothing,” Rodya said with a singsong whistle, looking over her three companions. “… Ishy, isn’t that the frilled undergarments that I pointed out to you when were in the Upper City last mon-“

Ishmael’s face lit up as she leaned forward, drops of spittle squeezing out from the sides of her gag. “Mmmph mmf mm gggmmph mmmph mmph mmppf.”

The rogue stifled a chuckle as she knelt down, snipping the gag out of Ishmael’s mouth with her dagger. Ishmael gagged and spat out the crumpled ball gag, working her jaw up and down as she massaged the aching bone. “… It’s a relief to see you guys.”

“No prob, Ishy,” Rodya said, ruffling the redhead’s hair before turning to Heathcliff. “You can just call us even for that whole mess-up down in the Shadowlands, yeah?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Ishmael chuckled, turning to Yi Sang and pulling her hands up as far as she could behind her. “Hey, Yi Sang, could you get these?”

The wizard obliged as he moved behind the girl. He gave the cuffs a once over before tracing his finger down the middle, as though neatly cutting it in two from top to bottom. The metal sputtered and split, dropping to the ground with a dull clank. The redhead sighed as she massaged her aching wrists, leaning her head forward to expose her neck. The collar came loose in a similar manner, letting her sigh with relief as she collapsed in one of the chairs. It groaned under the strain of its sudden occupant and Ishmael winced, bracing herself for the wood to splinter and collapse underneath her like some cruel joke.

Thankfully, at least something was going right for her today.

“Bloody hell,” Heathcliff grumbled, massaging the back of his newly liberated neck. “Thought I was gonna be paying my respects to Cathy in person this time…”

“C’mon, Heath,” Rodya teased, ruffling the brunet’s hair. “Didn’t even have the slightest bit of faith in us to pull through? I mean we’ve been through worse.”

“I’d personally like to go one job without us being put in mortal peril for once,” Ishmael said, pouting. “Besides, being dragged around like a trophy isn’t really on my short list of things I’d like to do before dying.”

“Yeah, I thought vampires were supposed to be all regal and dignified and all that shite,” Heathcliff muttered in agreement, turning to Don. The quiet blonde had slunk to her own corner in the room, her legs drawn up and her face buried in her knees. “Hey, Don, are all vampires a bunch of pretentious little shits like this?”

“… It depends on the clan,” she replied, her voice a quiet, humbled whisper. “Falkenrath are quite cruel and sadistic even by our standards. The remnants of the Zarovich clan are a lot more succinct and dislike frivolities and spectacle.”

“And what of the Quixote clan?” Yi Sang asked, tilting his head in wonder.

The girl flinched, her nails digging into her shins. Her eyes bashfully poked out from above her knees, dyed a deep red. “My father is not one to pick fights. And we don’t play with our food.”

If the reception was any colder, Ishmael would’ve checked to make sure that an errant Cone of Cold hadn’t blown in and buried them all in ice. All eyes shied away from the morose vampire as she curled up tighter into a ball, the boundless bundle of optimism and joy uncharacteristically subdued. Though still rather sore and with a painfully awkward crick in her neck, without Don’s carefree brazenness to lead them ahead, it fell to the redhead to break the silence. Ishmael cleared her throat, painting a hasty smile over her face as she turned to Rodya. “So, uh, Rodya, where exactly did you get this spare room?”

Rodya tactfully averted her gaze, awkwardly fidgeting. “Uhhh… so how do I explain this…?”

“Here.” The elf tucked a small, brass key into Rodya’s palm before closing her fingers around it. “I’m gonna move to a backup location now that you guys have kicked up a fuss. I don’t plan on circling back around to this part of the castle, so this shouldn’t affect my plans at all.”

“Rather courteous of you,” Rodya replied, scrutinizing the key between her fingertips. Despite her efforts, the key revealed nothing more than a veneer of complete mundanity wrapped in its dull tint. “And you’re just fine leaving this to us?”

“I mean I’m the one on commission for this matter,” Eleccia snorted, flippantly shaking her head. “What am I gonna do, get pissed at myself? My lord doesn’t care about how I get the job done so long as I get the intel to him.”

“If I may,” Yi Sang interjected, appearing from behind Rodya. “I notice that none of us have tried to keep our voices a low whisper despite being in the midst of the Lady Falkenrath’s guards, yet not a single one has deigned to investigate this small hideaway.”

“Huh, yeah, come to think of it, it is kinda weird no one else has popped into this room too,” Rodya mused, her eyes now quickly skimming the walls of the relatively clamped room. “And, well, we’re talking, so it wasn’t a Silence aura.”

“Ah,” Eleccia smirked. The elf’s eyes gleamed like two enticing gems in an ominous vault, practically glittering with anticipation. “Well you see, I’ve noticed that the Falkenraths are a bit… concupiscent? Salacious? You know.” The elf casually made a circle with her left hand before casually sliding her right index and middle through it, her grin growing wider and wider with each movement. “So this little alcove here is actually where a bunch of guests or vampires can slip away if they want to…”

“Huh.”

“Oh my.”

The elf cackled with laughter as she waltzed over to the nearest wall, much to the confounded stares of the two adventurers. Yi Sang and Rodya shared a confused glance as Eleccia spun around and, with an elegant and overly dramatic flourish, slammed the back of her heel into the embroidered trimmings lining the base of the wall. It shook, a muffled echo reverberating through the room. Rodya flinched, her hand flying to her dagger as she spun to the door that led to the room.

For several tense, agonizing seconds, her eyes were locked on the doorknob, as though expecting it to twist once before a cavalcade of vampires surged into the room to punish the sheer temerity and arrogance of the rats so bold they believed they could simply slip under noses. A cold sweat ran down her back, her boots quivering in trepidation, yet naught but the vacant, faint chatter of the voices from beyond the wall came to answer her fears.

The cackling devolved into howling as Eleccia doubled over, her hair spilling out of her hood and over her face. “Hahahahahahaha, holy shit, by Avarosa, you really thought I was going to get us all killed, didn’t you?”

“Not gonna lie… just a little bit,” Rodya sighed, clutching her chest. Were it any of the others, she’d have punched them straight in the face for such an uncouth joke. Truthfully, she was still considering punching the knife-earred bitch in the face. The elf slowly propped herself upright against the wall, wiping away tears as she combated the laughing fits still trying to claw their way up her throat.

“Well, I sure hope that the fact that we are all still quite alive and breathing and not currently getting served up as a nice cocktail is enough for you to take my word for it, for what little my word must be worth to you,” Eleccia jeered, tugging down on her hood before making for the door. “Normally I’d give my regards, but I must admit that I’m still not quite sure if you lot are going to make it past the night.”

“I take it you were an inspirational speaker back home,” Rodya shot back, her voice laced with venom.

“You could say that,” she said, pausing at the door. “But if and when we meet up again, Rodya, I do hope you’ll join me for a drink. I haven’t had company as pleasant as yours in quite a while.”

“Between her and Don, I swear elves are just completely incapable of being normal,” Ishmael muttered under her breath.

“I’m right here, Ishmael,” an irate Don huffed from the corner of the room, a faint splash of crimson flashing in her golden eyes. Her fingers slid across the top of her feet before interlocking between her toes, the girl anxiously rocking back and forth. “Before we apprehend Lady Anje, we must return for Rocinante.”

“You alright there, lass?” Heathcliff asked, pursing his lips. Indeed, now that Ishmael finally had a moment to breathe, she was aware of a faint, suffocating presence against her skin, a chilling aura that caused the hair on her body to stand on end. Though curled into a ball in the corner, a distinct, murderous presence exuded from the vampire, something akin to a suffocating miasma. Don propped her chin on top of her knees, her eyes now more of a dull copper than their usual gold.

“Truthfully, Heathcliff, I’ve been trying and rather failing to suppress my urges for the past few minutes now,” Don grumbled. Her voice was oddly ragged, as though she was out of breath… or rather, that she’d voluntarily stopped breathing. “My kin are receptive to each other’s presence, moreso when there’s one of a different family. I imagine once they stripped me of Rocinante, they assumed I was an obstinate upstart trying to muscle in on their territory.”

“Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate, Donqui,” Rodya commented with a laugh.

“Anyway,” Don continued, her sharp glare an uncharacteristic departure from the paladin’s lackadaisical countenance. “Unless our plan is to fight through each and every one of the Falkenrath clan in order to get a shot at Lady Anje, I would need to get ahold of Rocinante to mask my presence until we can get close enough to take our shot.”

“I don’t imagine each one of these sods is some kind of badass vampire lordling or something,” Heathcliff scoffed, kicking the limp body at his feet. “Can’t you, like, use your vampire powers and just cut your way to this Anje gal?”

“I’m hardly the fighter my father nor my sister was,” Don retorted, shaking her head. “I can maintain my Hardblood Arts for maybe a little more than an hour, but I haven’t attempted any prolonged use of my bloodline’s abilities. Not to mention that, again, trying to fight through all of Anje’s spawn would be ill-advised.”

“You really one to talk, lass?” Heathcliff shot back, cocking his eyebrow.

“If we had Faust and the others, we could probably manage,” Ishmael mused, slinking into a nearby chair. She buried her face in her hands, nervously crossing and uncrossing her legs. “With just the five of us, though, it’d be pretty much suicide.”

“Pffft, I’ve heard of worst odds,” Heathcliff chortled. He clamped his hand down on Ishmael’s shoulder, frantically illustrating what most certainly was a tactical strategy whose brilliance outshone even the most gifted strategists of the Sword Coast. “See, here’s the plan. I’ll run right over to Anje and give her a good smack over the head. Then, before she can react, you can run up next to her and knock her down. Then, Yi Sang can do that whole spell where a bunch of daggers all pop outta thin air and start cutting her up while Rodya and Don all finish her off! Easy fight, basically done in thirty seconds.”

Four unimpressed stares met Heathcliff in reply. Ishmael coughed, rubbing the back of her head; the secondhand embarrassment was somehow even more suffocating than the barely-suppressed bloodlust of their vampiric companion. “Alright, Heathcliff,” Ishmael began, giving him a consolatory pat on the head. “Let’s just assume, for the record, that all of this goes exactly as you say it will and we don’t just end up getting tossed around like a bunch of ragdolls before they wheel out two more guillotines for Rodya and Yi Sang.”

“I must add,” Yi Sang interjected with a sigh. “I’ve read some vampires are capable of dissolving into a thick mist to escape such predicaments. Unless our efforts are so precise and of such indomitable force that they force Lady Anje to heel in the first few seconds, we may find our efforts for naught.”

“… Anyway,” Ishmael said, bent over in her chair while resting the side of her head in her palm. “So let’s say that all that goes according to plan and we take out this crazy vampire bitch. Do you expect all of the vampires here to, like, give up and leave?”

Heathcliff averted his gaze, his confident smile shattered. “Uh… honestly, I didn’t think that far ahead. We usually just kill all the bad guys in the way, don’t we?”

“Yes, usually in like groups of four to six in confined chokepoints or something,” Ishmael replied, cocking her eyebrow in disbelief. “Not, like, an entire goddamn army of them. Especially not when we’re surrounded by them. Do you expect us to just tackle all of them head on or something?”

“Well, can’t Yi Sang just throw a fireball at them like he usually does?”

The already stoic and impassive Yi Sang narrowed his gaze. If Don’s sharp glare was already out of character, Yi Sang’s cold stare may as well have been a dagger to the heart. “… I do not believe I am capable of conjuring magics to ward off an entire army.”

Rodya hummed, pensively pressing her fingers to her lips. “Alright, so I guess we’ll backtrack and grab your things, then we’ll just hash out a backup plan?”

Ishmael shrugged, casting her gaze toward Yi Sang. Though usually expressionless, the girl had spent more than enough time around the furtive wizard to pick apart his musings. Heathcliff’s suggestion had about as much insight as throwing a dead raccoon onto the table, true, but even though their situation was a tad bit on the doomed end, there was at least some unity among the group that they could still accomplish their mission unscathed.

All four of them.

“You’re thinking we should cut our losses and make a break for it, don’t you?” Ishmael asked bluntly.

“… Forgive my impropriety,” Yi Sang replied, his eyes downcast. “However, the ordeals placed upon us are quite grave. If we were to foolishly march ahead in spite of the perils laid out before us, we may accomplish little more than serve as trophies to the Lady Falkenrath’s ascension.”

Ishmael bit her lip. “Got me there, Yi Sang. But you know Don-“

She paused, feeling the words catch in her throat. The fleeting images of those grisly guillotines flashed before her eyes, a looming specter of the fate that likely lay before them. Without the devilish powers of Sinclair’s pact, the unbridled bloodlust of Ryoshu, or Faust’s startling, unparalleled tactical acumen, they were outmatched, outmaneuvered, and quite roundly fucked. They likely would put everything on the line for… what, exactly? A lone girl that wandered into their abode on an early morning? A group of nameless travelers to whom the redhead could barely assign names to, let alone any sentiment. It was unlikely Faust would disparage the group for choosing their safety over such a reckless, suicidal mission, let alone the gods above.

“… but you know that none of us could really live it down if we just turned around and let all these people die just so we could save ourselves.” Ishmael finally countered.

Yi Sang’s eyes fluttered closed. He sighed, a faint touch of red coloring his otherwise pale cheeks as the wizard rubbed his temples as though attempting to ward off a persistent headache. “You’re right.”

“Heroic sentiments aside,” Don interjected, loudly rapping the wall behind her with her knuckles. “Could all of you please get our stuff already? I’m getting a rather terrible stomachache and headache here. Not to mention that at some point Lady Anje’s spawn should notice something’s awry.”

“Right,” Ishmael turned to Yi Sang. “What are you thinking? Maybe… halflings? No, halflings might look out of place. Elves, maybe? They’re pompous enough pricks that they’d go unnoticed.”

“Mayhap,” Yi Sang’s words drifted off, his eyes focusing on Ishmael with a… disturbingly acute sharpness. “There is a flaw in our plan, however.”

“What do you mea-oh shit,” Ishmael’s hand absent-mindedly wandered to her collar, tracing the outline of her collarbone before following her sternum, wincing as though her nail was like a sharp knife piercing her bare skin. “… I don’t suppose Seeming conjures clothes?”

“It does not,” Yi Sang replied curtly.

“… Don’t suppose you know some ‘conjure minor clothing’ spells you picked up from some dusty old tome in some forgotten catacombs or something?”

“I do not.”

“Right,” Ishmael sighed, glancing around the room. Though Rodya’s and Yi Sang’s pilfered clothes of questionable repute were more than enough to ward off all but the most prying eyes, the rather… conspicuous sight of herself, Don, and Heathcliff shielded by little more than their undergarments would provide as much tact as a flaming, raging bull, no matter what type of form they would take beforehand. Her eyes glanced down at the lone body on the floor, the bloodied, ragged clothes of their former guard similarly as discrete as a giant, lumbering sentry carrying luggage around. “Well, what’s the plan now?”

A beat, then Rodya slapped her fist against her palm, her eyes practically sparkling. “Wait, wait, wait, we’re forgetting where we are. I got a brilliant idea!”

Despite Rodya’s best instructions, Ishmael more or less resembled a wilted vegetable in a boiling stew. Though now transfigured to a petite elf, two heads shorter than her hulking, vampiric owner tugging at her collar, she still visibly seethed as eyes upon eyes fell on her once again restrained and vulnerable form. Her already pale skin had brightened to a blinding hue akin to porcelain, while, much to her quite vocal chagrin, her chest had ballooned to the point where her bra quite clearly strained to hold its newfound volume. The vote had been three to two; Rodya was quite insistent that modifying Ishmael’s proportions would both keep the Falkenrath guards from noticing their escaped quarry as well as serve as an enticing lure, a two-shot punch that toppled Yi Sang’s indecisiveness.

Ishmael decided not to point out the shit-eating grin plastered on the rogue’s face as she triumphantly sauntered about the hallway, tugging about her newfound concubine like a trophy pup. Rodya was right at the end of the day; even if it was probably, like, the fourth or fifth point of reasoning behind her plan. She sighed and, biting her tongue and swallowing the fragments of her shattered pride, she forced a pained smile, clasping her shackled hands in front of her like some obedient servant girl as Rodya waved over a duo of idle elves. The first, a similarly diminutive elf girl who carried the same haughty stature as the many vampires that roamed the halls, tilted her head at the paltry sight of such an innocent elf being led around by a human master, the latter’s towering height and bulky physique and her face practically slathered in makeup almost in sharp contrast to her companion’s. The second elf, too, suppressed a chuckle as she looked down on Ishmael, the disguised girl barely able to contain her pent-up frustration.

“What an awfully sorry sight this is,” he scoffed, grabbing Ishmael’s chin and turning her head this way and that like a doll. “Hm, though I can’t really say you remind me of anyone. Ma’am, where did you procure this little pet of yours?”

“From some, uh, market a week or so back,” Rodya said quickly, her golden eyes exuding confidence. “I thought I’d bring her for entertainment during this festival the Lady Falkenrath is throwing.”

“Entertainment, huh?” The second elf licked his lips as he knelt down, his face brushing up against Ishmael’s. His sharp features and predatory grin gave the girl the sense of déjà vu and she wondered off-handedly if this Anje person had sent a personal invitation to every single humanoid equivalent of a sentient asshole. “What do you think, sister? I can’t quite place her bloodline, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Quite the contrary, brother,” she hummed, sliding her fingers down Ishmael’s side before latching onto her hip. “Leaving your companion laid bare like this, my lady. You must be quite proud of such a fetching concubine.”

“Yeah, she’s actually quite feisty, but when she’s in the mood…” Rodya’s grin seemed to expand past her face as she gestured a faint explosion. Ishmael glanced over at Rodya, her eyes, too, widened past the point where they should have popped out of her skull. Though she didn’t mouth the words, Rodya could hear Ishmael’s voice clear as day.

‘If you say another fucking word I will take that dagger of yours and shove it straight up your ass.’

“This girl? Feisty?” The second elf clicked his tongue, nuzzling his forehead against Ishmael’s. “Well, back where I’m from, I’ve got quite the reputation for bringing girls to heel.”

“Oh, do you?” Rodya matched the elf’s almost ravenous tone, leaning over and latching her arm around his neck. “Well, I know a person who knows a person who’s friends with another person and I managed to land myself a personal room.” Rodya flashed the key in-between her fingers. “Whaddya say? You look pretty nice yourself, hun. I bet you’d do wonderful things to both of us.”

“I feel left out,” the first elf pouted, digging her hand into Rodya’s shoulder like the claws of a feral cat. “Don’t you think that you can simply have me sit outside while you all hog the fun.”

Ishmael felt less nausea rocking about in the turbulent waters off the Sword Coast than being in the middle of this degeneracy.

“Don’t worry,” Rodya cooed, giving a wink to the elf. “I didn’t forget about you. I’m pretty sure that between my friend and I, we could give the both of you a wonderful little show.”

“Is that so?” The elven girl plucked the key from Rodya’s hands, sliding it into the lock beside her. The door clicked open, an ocean of darkness appearing that swallowed the light from the corridor. “Well, then, I’d love to see this display for myself.”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, my dear,” the second elf interjected, thrusting himself in front of the three and through the door. “Remember that our friend her gestured to me first. It is only right that I be the first to partake in our… little escapade.”

Wasting no time, he quickly vanished into the room. The first elf pouted, her cheeks puffed out like an obstinate child, before chasing after him, Rodya and Ishmael shuffling through close behind before locking the door behind them. Amidst the shadows that swallowed the four, not a single light flourished save for a small, solitary lantern, beside which the very faint outline of three silhouettes could just barely be seen painted against the wall. The second elf stopped mid-stride, his brow furrowing as he quietly began counting the unwelcome company joining them.

“W-Wait,” he stammered, hastily stepping back. “What is the meaning of th-“

A satisfying thud sent the elf crashing to the ground, unconscious. Ishmael pressed her foot against his back, snorting. “Prick.” She quickly turned to his companion, tearing away her façade as she stared down the quivering girl. “You. Clothes off, now.”

“W-What?” She pressed herself up against the wall, fumbling for her pockets. “I-Is this a joke? Look, if you want money, I’ll give you what you want, just please kill my brother fir-“

“Oh, bloody hell, lass,” one of the enigmatic figures groaned, lumbering over to her with the torn leg of a chair raised. “Just give us your damned clothes already!”

“… and that’s why I’m usually choosing you for these little tricks, Ishy,” Rodya finished, practically beaming. “You have an absolutely exquisite poker face. With Yi Sang’s perfect Seeming at play, I bet even I’d forget where you were if I wasn’t just dragging you along everywhere!”

“Uh-huh,” Ishmael grunted. Her pointed ears bristled with annoyance, her thin lips pressed together into an unamused frown. After another transfiguration, she neatly fit into the noble elf’s dress with little issue, though the gaudy, gilded trimming and the overly elaborate mixture of viridian and sapphiric dye gave her a headache whenever she glanced down at her disguise. The quartet had swiftly navigated through the turbulent waves of vampires and ecstatic nobles alike with little fuss, the once idle murmurs of a potential rat hiding in the rafters now becoming hushed whispers as Falkenrath agents dissected group after group, bloodhounds searching for their escaped convicts. It had taken quite a bit of effort for Yi Sang to mask the lingering effects of his spell on the four of them, even moreso to sustain it even as pulses of dispelling charms washed over the hallways. Descending back into the catacombs almost served as a welcome relief, saved from all but Rodya’s playful jabs as the darkness reclaimed their passage. Ishmael ran a hand through her new mane of stiff blonde, stopping at the rope headband that was still carefully perched atop her. “Rodya, the only thing you’ve convinced me is that half of us wouldn’t want to deal with these tricks and the other half couldn’t act their way past a drunken guard.”

“I think of it more as having an open mind and an inherent charm,” Rodya countered, her cheeky grin and jovial tone distorted by the masculine appearance she now adopted along with the other elf’s regalia. “’Sides, without Hong Lu or Faust to take over, who else can I turn to? Donqui’s got the spirit but you and I both know she couldn’t win a bluff against a curious tressymm. And Heath…”

The two fell silent. Behind them, Heathcliff, masked as a lowly halfling servant, threw his hands up in exasperation. “Hey! You know I can hear you two, right? I can talk my way past all these daft idiots, no problem.”

Ishmael and Rodya tactfully avoided Heathcliff’s accusatory glare. Yi Sang, taking up the rear, too kept his silence. The barbarian simmered, his mouth open for some hellish rebuke. Yet as the four reached the bottom, the only thing that coughed up from his throat was a muted curse. He grumbled and looked around, his eyes quickly falling on a small chest propped up against one of the walls. “Oi, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it,” Ishmael replied, calling over the other three. A small, almost innocuous padlock kept its contents secure, its iron frame neatly fitting in Ishmael’s palm. The girl cautiously poked and prodded both the lock and the head of the chest. What was it gonna be this time? A bomb? A delayed trigger? Or perhaps the Falkenraths thought it funny to keep their prisoners’ belongings in a Mimic. If there was truly more to this chest than a simple padlock, its secrets eluded the irritated girl. In stark contrast, Rodya failed to skip a beat in her blissful hum as she shooed Ishmael away, taking the padlock in her hand and eyeing it carefully.

“I do not sense any lingering traces of magic on the lock,” Yi Sang observed, peering over Rodya’s shoulder. “Still, it would be wise not to assume that these vampires would simply leave their treasures guarded with such a simple device.”

Ishmael nodded in agreement. After the debacle with the Sharrites, and the mishandling of the Dark Brotherhood vaults, and that one time Don Quixote carelessly tried to open one of Baldur’s Gates own tax chests on a whim because “it happened to be a chest out in the open,” she’d begun to assume that booby trapping chests just so happened to be a common pastime for people on the Sword Coast. Of course, Rodya, their master thief, was adept at dealing with such security measures. Her nimble fingers and lockpick were second to none in Limbus company, letting Ishmael sigh with relief as she carefully examined the lock like some type of archeological find.

Then Rodya dropped the lock and smashed it open with the heel of her foot.

The silence was palpable, three gazes practically devoid of light staring down a beaming Rodya as she remains the crumpled remains of the lock up for the rest of the group to see.

Right, Ishmael had forgotten that Rodya just happened to be the best at handling locks in their group; unfortunately, their group had zero experience with thievery. The girl winced, expecting the chest to burst into flames or explode with a blinding light or for a stream of vampires to pour from the entrance and haul them before Anje in chains.

She was almost disappointed when the chest cracked open and Rodya pulled out Ishmael’s mace to zero fanfare.

“See, told ya I knew what I was doing!” Rodya cheered, tossing the cudgel over to Ishmael. The unamused girl snatched it out of the air, her red hair unfurling as Yi Sang’s Seeming broke and body slowly returned to its normal proportions. She leaned against the hilt of the mace, watching Heathcliff quickly skitter over to the side and begin pulling his gear out from the chest.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not complaining,” Ishmael grumbled, rolling her eyes. Her finger hooked against the strap of her gaudy dress and pulled it loose, throwing the garment to the side as her plate mail and the enchanted undershirt accompanying it soared over to her. “Hey, Heathcliff, you don’t mind carrying Don’s lance, do you? It’d look out of place on any of us.”

“Yeah, no prob,” he said, pulling his favored battleaxe loose and looking it over as though it had been nicked or scratched in the few hours since their separation. Ishmael tightened the gloves of her tunic before finally slinging her mace over her shoulder, casting her eyes to the myriad of cells making up the dungeon. Though the small dungeon was bereft of its guards, a smattering of prisoners could still be seen through the rusted, iron bars, their vacant eyes blind to the blatant intruders robbing their captors. Cautiously, Ishmael approached one of the occupied cells, faintly waving over to its occupant. A human perhaps a year younger than her, his ghastly physique was naught but skin and bones, his grey eyes looking past the girl to the guards that had become so routine to his endless torment. Ishmael’s hand instinctively went toward the handle, stopping shy as painful memories seized her wrist and held it tight.

“Ishmael,” Yi Sang called to her from his vigil near the stairs. “Do not deviate from our current path. It would be unnecessarily dangerous to alert any more of the Falkenrath guard to our presence by freeing any of these prisoners.”

“I know that,” she retorted, huffing in irritation. “Just… sucks, looking at all of this.”

“Your intentions are noble, though without our illustrious Don Quixote unduly influencing our decisions for once, we should refrain from any short-sighted intentions,” the wizard said in reply. His shoulders sagged, a clear pang of regret shooting across his face. “Perhaps, with Lady Faust in tow, we may revisit this fortress another time.”

“Hmph, assuming there’s anything left,” Heathcliff muttered under his breath.

The girl’s fingers hovered on the handle of the cell door, each fiber of her being screaming at her to wrench it open. Though she disagreed with Don on a great number of things, the elvish paladin had latched onto her ever since that fateful day due to, of all things, a mutual sense of justice. Deep down, she still retained some shred of that starry-eyed Baldurian youth that yearned to quell evil under the banner of the Flaming Fist. In that way, she and Don were part of the half of Limbus company most likely to break ranks for the sake of moral or ethical concerns.

At the same time, though, she’d long since matured past that naïve girl that swung her blade at straw dummies and fantasized about the glorious tales of Balduran and other heroes of yore. What good were heroics and theatrics if they got you killed; hell, what good was her inspired sense of justice if it dragged the rest of her friends with her to their graves. A group of four could still squeeze through the castle’s hallways undisturbed even with their increasingly paranoid security; it would be the height of folly to assume Yi Sang could do the same for twenty. And, of course, to stage a prison break would be no different from offering all their heads up to the executioner’s axe.

So was the best solution simply to ignore them and save their own skin? Of course it was; Yi Sang was always the voice of caution, the voice of reason, and she hated that he typically was never wrong in his own analytical assessments, no matter how much they fried her own instincts.

Reluctantly, then, the girl shied away from the cell, her eyes glancing over the other prisoners. Glassy eyes, skeletal bodies, pale skin, she’d not noticed it at first from her blindfold nor from her painful hogtie, but it seemed the three of them were the only prisoners in this cell block with any sort of vitality to them. Were it not for the faint rise and fall of their chests, Ishamel would’ve guessed that Anje was keeping corpses around for kicks. She felt her skin crawl as her eyes skimmed over the rest of the prisoners with increasing disgust, her mind filled with foggy images of what tortures could have occurred in these dank cells. Limp and lifeless, not a single body seemed to acknowledge her presence as she listlessly went up and down the cells, as though expecting some type of reaction from the near dead that served as the vampires’ cattle and clowns.

Wait, no. She paused, one of the obscured prisoners restlessly rustling to the sound of Ishmael’s footsteps. She leaned in, her eyes immediately catching the flash of green hair tied into pigtails. The leather tunic from earlier was chipped, its leather scorched with flames, and her arms bore several scratches with droplets of dry blood running down to her elbows, but Ishmael still breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the archer from before in one piece. She whipped her head around, calling to the others. “Guys, over here. It’s one of the two that those golems from before were trying to capture.”

“Really?” Heathcliff rushed over, pressing his head through the cell bars before Ishmael’s hand could raise to stop him. “Huh, that’s the lass alright. Glad to see she didn’t get mashed into a fine paste or something.”

“I’m sure she can hear you and I’m sure she must feel great knowing that the best thing you have to say is that you’re happy she’s not dead,” Ishmael hissed, hooking her fingers around Heathcliff’s collar and pulling him back. “And have you ever thought about rubbing the two brain cells in your head and considering whether the cell doors are booby trapped?”

“Like the chest was?” Heathcliff shot back, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, Ish. It’s a prison, not some ancient burial ground for some long dead kings buried under some icy mountain. Who the hell would boobytrap their own fort?”

Ishmael crossed her arms, her glare colder than an icy knife through the ribs. “Strahd. Bhaal. Swain. Fucking Sheogorath.”

“You and I both know that crazy ass gods don’t count,” he countered, leaning forward until their faces were but centimeters apart.

“Hey, hey, cut it out, you two,” Rodya cut in, clicking her tongue as she grabbed the two by the neck and pulled them apart. “If you two wanna flirt, can you wait until we get outta this mess?”

Ishmael’s violent and all too expected retort was lost to the rogue as she knelt down, her eyes vigilantly scanning each and every centimeter of the lock like she was appraising some mythical jewel. Ishmael sighed as she peeked over Rodya’s shoulder, wondering if she should intervene before the rogue did something stupid. There was an off-chance that, perhaps, Rodya did have some uncanny knack for detecting booby traps or mystical deterrence. Or, perhaps, Rodya’s luck far outstripped her patience and she was willing to simply roll the dice and see what happened. Ishmael, of course, could never pin down what plans stirred in Rodya’s mind until she saw the girl lean back, her lockpick abandoned for her dagger. And, much like every time before, she was too late to stop Rodya from slamming the knife directly against into the keyhole of the lock. The door whined, clearly frustrated that someone had dared to subvert its intricate locks in such a brutish and uncouth manner, and creaked open.

And, like every single time before, Rodya was not punished for her startling lack of caution.

Any qualms Ishmael had over Rodya’s methods were shelved for another off-handed rant as she hurriedly entered the cell. The beleaguered archer’s head shot up, the panic flashing across her eyes replaced with relief as the redhead knelt down next to her, taking a dagger to the shackles binding her wrists behind her. The gag in her mouth followed suit, the girl coughing and sputtering before immediately tackling Ishmael to the ground in a hug.

“Wow, holy shit wow, I… just thanks. Thanks a bunch, I don’t know what ta’ tell you and all,” she blubbered, tears streaking down her face as she buried herself in Ishmael’s shoulder. “Gods, I was just… scared outta my wits. Can’t even imagine what my ma and pa would’ve done if they saw my corpse all strung up on the castle wall or my blood being drunken like apple cider. You’re a hero, a real pal, my ol’ guardian ang-“

“T-T-That’s fine,” Ishmael coughed, feeling the air struggle to enter her lungs. “C-Could you stop? I can’t breathe.”

“O-Oh, right,” the archer chuckled, her face flushing with embarrassment as she pulled herself back, awkwardly twirling a finger through one of her twintails. “Um… name’s ‘Becca. Rebecca, I mean. Didya, by any chance, see Nino anywhere?”

“Nino? The, uh, the wizard that was accompanying you?” Ishmael hesitated, noticing the archer’s quivering lip and her widening eyes. “… No, sorry, I thought she would be with you.”

“O-Oh…” Ishmael felt a pain of pain shoot down her spine, the dejected whimper of the archer not so dissimilar to a knife in the back. Rebecca rubbed the back of her head, her eyes skirting away in shame. “… Those, uh, undead creeps came by earlier. Dragged Nino out to prepare her for some… festivities or something.” Her finger hooked her collar and pulled down, a dark bruise painted just below her neck. “I, uh, tried to fight them off. Didn’t go over well, as you can probably see.”

The redhead nodded awkwardly, her hand instinctively running over her face. She’d been lucky enough that the kick to her face had only left some minor swelling.

“But yeah, y’all are gonna go shove a stake in that girl Anje’s heart, right?” she continued, perking up. “Mind if I come with?”

“Ishmael,” came Yi Sang’s voice, laced with an uncharacteristic annoyance. “We are in a precarious enough situation without bringing more unnecessary people along. We cannot guarantee hers nor our safety if we pick up whoever on a whim.”

“And what exactly is your plan, Yi Sang?” Ishmael retorted, matching his disapproving gaze with an annoyed glower. “They’ll probably notice we took back our belongings. We just going to leave her in this cell to rot and hope the Falkenrath vampires aren’t pissed off? Or do you expect her to just somehow worm her way through all of the security and find her own way out?”

“I reckon it’d be suicidal trying that,” Rebecca added, stepping forward. “Besides, I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I left Nino her to die. That’s why you came here too, right, Mr. Yi Sang?”

The wizard flinched, the archer’s pinpoint accusation nailing him square in his heart. Though he tactfully refused to meet Rebecca’s gaze, his defeated sigh spoke volumes. “Let us confer with Don Quixote. My concern is that a team of six will be far less inconspicuous.”

“But of course another intrepid adventurer joining our valiant ranks is more than welcome!” Don bellowed, raising the archer’s arm up as though she’d picked out a volunteer from the crowd. “Her skill with a bow was legendary! Pray tell, I imagine with her abilities we should be able to smite the vicious Lady Anje from her very throne!”

“Wondering if we should’ve held off on giving her back Rocinante before we posed this question,” Ishmael said off-handedly, her eyes fixated on the ratty leather boots that once again adorned Don’s feet. “Anyway, Don, I doubt we can seriously keep eluding the Falkenraths. There’s only so many times Rodya can make up some crackpot story before they finally get too suspicious of us.”

“C’mon, Ishy,” Rodya laughed, leaning over Ishmael’s shoulder and slapping her on the back. “I got a good one. This time, we’re emissaries from the town of Ardougne, seeking an audience with the oh so benevolent, wise, and beautiful Lady Anje to seek help with dealing with the Plague.”

“I thought it already came out that plague was a hoax,” Ishmael asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Also, if you were to speak such words in front of Lady Anje, she might rip out your throat in disgust,” Don snorted.

Rodya crossed her arms, pouting. “Okay, then, I’ve come up with the last eight cover stories. What about you two, then?”

“We’re… bored nobles from Baldur’s Gate?” Ishmael proffered.

“Valiant paladins hailing from the Gavony Riders themselves!” Don declared.

“… Uh-huh,” Rodya said, clearly unimpressed. “And this is why I’m the one that speaks to everyone.”

“Before we get waylaid by another tangent,” Yi Sang cut in with a sigh. “Don, I trust your plan hinges on more than simple brazen overconfidence. It was you, after all, that recognized the gravity of our situation before we embarked on this expedition.”

Don’s beaming smile faltered, her golden eyes tinted with a hint of crimson. “… Couldn’t you have at least given me a few minutes?”

“Sangie’s right, Chiquita,” Rodya chimed in, her expression unusually serious. “We’ve already had one close call and I suspect this Anje gal’s gonna start hard grilling anyone that doesn’t look like they’re already half-dead. We need to make our move now.”

“Well, why don’t we just stop faffing about and just kill these blighters already?” Heathcliff grumbled, brazen confidence written all over his face. “If they know we’re probably here already, might as well just start taking them all out.”

Five pairs of empty eyes met Heathcliff in reply, the awkward silence more than enough to voice the group’s collective thoughts. Perhaps in a meager attempt to dispel the stifling, poignant judgment, Rebecca coughed and rubbed the back of her head. “Haha… uh… I take it your friend here’s not the tactician among y’all?”

“Nope.”
“Nay.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Not at all.”

Heathcliff exhaled sharply, throwing his arm out in annoyance. “Oi, what are you all looking at me like that for? I’m saying exactly what all of you are thinking!”

“Thank the gods these rooms are sound-proofed,” Ishmael muttered under her breath.

Catching the spark that roared in Heathcliff’s eyes, Don quickly moved between the two, grabbing Rodya’s attention with a snap of her fingers. “B-Before we elect to engage in a healthy duel to sort out our frustrations, prithee, Rodya, you said you came into possession of a type of ritual?”

“Ritual? Oh!” Rodya hurriedly emptied her pockets, eventually pulling out the crumpled parchment and tossing it over to Don. “Yeah, uh, that one elf girl said it was… Cosaqueran?”

“Kozakuran,” Don corrected her, her eyes hurriedly skimming over the document. “Yes, on occasion I’ve spoken with Bari-“ The paladin cleared her throat, her cheeks tinged a faint pink. “I mean… I’ve gone on length about some of the foreign lands. There’s nothing too remarkable about this language; the kingdoms that made up Kozakura have mostly been consigned to history books. However, I believe I’m familiar with this incident your friend spoke about. Last time we were in Baldur’s Gate, I caught up with some friends. The Szarr incident was a bit of a stir among the vampires in the Sword Coast, so I was privy to the gossip. For instance, the Lord of that family was quite fascinated with philology. I suspect the writing of this ritual may have been one of his eccentricities.”

“So, how does this help us out?” Ishmael asked, peeking over Don’s shoulder. As Rodya attested, the myriad of glyphs and symbols that adorned the parchment were as legible as an infant’s scribblings.

“This type of ritual requires a lot of planning and a lot of souls,” she explained, her finger tracing one of many glyphs inscribed in the center. “Some of these runes here are meant to demarcate beings whose life force is to be forcibly removed per the ritual. These ones in particular, for instance, are meant to brand vampires whose souls are to be offered to the Vampire Ascendant.”

Ishmael winced, reminded of how casually the vampires had mimed inscribing those same glyphs across Don’s back only moments ago. “So, does this mean that the people we’re looking for have already been put aside as sacrifices?”

“Most likely,” the paladin replied, her lips pursing in consternation. “Still, unless Lady Anje intended to sacrifice half of her own followers, there’s no chance that a bunch of purebloods, even those as steeped in magic as our mutual friend, would be enough to even reach an iota of the power she’d acquire from this.”

“Maybe the bitch got impatient and decided to just gobble up all the humans she could get her hands on?” Heathcliff offered, his eyes practically bouncing off the parchment. “She just heard that the ritual provides a buncha power and decided to roll with it.”

“That would be incredibly reckless,” Don muttered, her worry quickly turning to confusion. “Still, without a suitable amount of sacrifices, surely…”

“You know, maybe Heathcliff’s right,” Rodya offered, tilting her head in wonder. “I mean, maybe she’s not trying to be some whole goddess or whatever. Maybe she just thinks she can throw a bunch of people under the bus and give herself a sizable increase in power. It’d be in character for a bunch of power-hungry monsters we’ve dealt with before.”

“Nnngh,” Don shook her head, rubbing her temples as a faint headache began to plague her, no doubt due to the gears in her head finally having to turn for once in the elf’s life. “I can’t begin to grasp Lady Anje’s plans. This plan seems utterly idiotic from every angle. Still, if she intends to sacrifice Remilia’s family and Rebecca’s friend for this power grab, this demon must be stopped regardless.”

“I mean, we were going to have to fight her regardless,” Ishmael said with a shrug. “So, we gonna go with that whole plan about Ardougne then?”

“No, no.” Don cut Rodya off as the beaming rogue was about to go into detail of her masterful ruse, rolling the parchment up and pocketing it. She closed her eyes, an oddly tranquil calm taking over the usual boisterous and eccentric elf. Deep in contemplation, one would hardly guess the solemn paladin pressing her hands together in an almost meditative prayer was the same one who would regale hordes upon hordes of onlookers with exploits of her companion’s travels like she was some two-bit bard. Her eyes popped open, her gaze flicking over to Rebecca. “You know, I think Heathcliff’s idea wasn’t so bad after all.”

“U-Uh…” Rebecca stammered, feeling Don’s golden eyes fixate on her. “H-Hey, um, your friend alright there? Did she hit her head or something when she got taken prisoner?”

“Not at all,” the blonde replied, walking over and plucking her lance free from Heathcliff. “The castle is turning itself inside-out in order to find us. I imagine once it catches sight of us, it would open upon more blind spots where there were none before.”

“So you’re going to be bait. Again,” the redhead snorted, shaking her head incredulously. “We’ve got to expand our playbook a bit.”

“Hey, if it works,” Heathcliff laughed, ruffling Don’s hair. “The lass’s got a good head on her shoulders. If it worked on a type four demon from the Abyss, why not some crazy vampire lady?”

“Mhm,” Don’s eyes turned to Ishmael, her eyes flickering a vivid scarlet for only a moment. “Ishmael, if you would.”

“… Really, Don?” Ishmael rolled her eyes, the girl already reflexively grabbing her arm and pulling it away. “I thought you were reserving your powers for when you’d have a good shot at Anje.”

“That was the plan, but admittedly, I worry that the longer we tarry, the more likely the noose around our necks will finally suffocate us.” Don said, moving closer to the girl. Ishmael took a step back, acutely aware of the fangs poking out from Don’s ravenous smile. “And unlike the Nalfeshnee, it’s very likely that Anje will simply overlook me unless I give her a reason to come down from wherever she’s holed up.”

“Ugh,” Disgust and aggravation practically dripped from the girl’s snarl, yet still she reluctantly held her arm out, pulling the thick fabric back to expose the unblemished skin underneath. “Just this time, can you at least let me know bef-“

But of course, like she had done several times before, Don practically leapt at the opportunity, lunging forward and sinking her fangs into Ishmael’s arm. The redhead convulsed, eyes widening and pupils dilating as her heart banged against her chest, angrily demanding that the blood slowly drained from the girl’s arm be returned. She sunk to her knees, barely supporting herself on her free arm as Don’s white teeth were coated in a crimson red, a bloody hue equally reflected in her deep, red irises. Blistering pain swallowed her thoughts while her teeth grinded back and forth, with one astray movement being enough to bite off her tongue.

Ishmael’s gaze drifted to Don, the blonde’s pale skin practically filling with color as she drank deep the nectar of her beloved companion. If she didn’t know any better, she would think Don was taking an exceedingly bizarre enjoyment out of this.

Off to the side, the horrified archer pulled an arrow from her quiver, staggering forward to plunge it in the vampire’s neck. An unphased Yi Sang stepped in her way, his hand grasping the arrow’s shaft. “You’ll have to excuse our friend’s… brusque methods.”

“Brus-what the hell are y’all doing?!” Rebecca exclaimed, boiling with rage. “She’s… that fucking monster is…!”

“I-It’s fine…” Ishmael gasped, straining to smile even as the blood quite literally drained from her face. Fine was, of course, a relative term; her very body screeched in agony as her companion’s fangs bit directly into her veins and drank deep, her heart feeling like it very well would explode trying to make up for the sudden deficit and her lungs shriveling up from the anemia. She may as well have tried to wave off her arm getting cut off or being drowned off the Sword Coast. Forget Stockholm Syndrome nor abuse; if any sane person were to gaze upon the redhead slowly being exsanguinated by her so-called friend, they’d think she’d lost her mind.

Thankfully for the two of them, she had no reason to further justify Don’s actions as the paladin released her jaws from Ishmael’s arm. As Ishmael slunk to the ground, panting and wheezing, Don drew her middle and forefinger across her fingers, her pale skin coming back coated with a viscous, red fluid. Like some overeager child, she plopped the fingers in her mouth, trying her best not to let out an ecstatic moan as she knelt down and offered the girl a hand. Rebecca’s mouth was agape as she saw the two join hands, the blonde helping the redhead back up to her feet and to the nearest chair as though the dismal scene was but some awful, erstwhile nightmare.

“… G-Gods…” Ishmael gasped, gingerly massaging her bloody arm. “Don, I thought you said you’d be less forceful about this shit the next time I let you bite me.”

“Lo, m-my apologies, Ishmael,” Don cried, pressing her palms together in an act of penance. “I-I remembered your words from before. ‘Tis my intention not to sully your generosity but…” The girl gulped, her fingers digging into her exposed collar. Her eyes went wide, her mouth spreading into abnormally wide smile, and a faint, callous giggle drifted from her lips. “… But you still taste… so heavenly, Ishmael…”

“Uh-huh…” Ishmael grumbled, reaching over and flicking the elf on the forehead. “Just remember that if you do that shit to me again, you’ll be lucky if the only thing I do is make you go vegetarian for a month.”

“Y-You wouldn’t dare…!” Don hissed, her crimson eyes flaring from such a scathing threat.

Off to the side, Rebecca slowly lowered the arrow into her quiver, her rage quickly doused as she looked over the two girls, the puzzling image before her somehow even more terrifying than the thought of a vampire coercing her companions into becoming her personal bloodbags. “Are… uh… are y’all friends there, like, fine? In the head and stuff?”

“Those two?” Heathcliff snorted, gesturing to the pale redhead caked in sweat and the frantic blonde clutching her head and bowing her head up and down, her face etched with horror. “Nope, absolutely not. The lass there sometimes needs blood as a pick-me-up to do her crazy shite, but none of us are mental enough to let a vampire take a huge ol’ bite of them. Well, uh, not anyone ‘cept Ish there.”

“I… uh… I see…” Rebecca coughed, her eyes warily set on Ishmael. The redhead acknowledged her with a pained wave, though it seemed every breath may as well have been stabbing her in the throat. “… And we don’t need to, like, get a healer or something?”

“According to her, the light-headedness clears after a couple of minutes or something,” Heathcliff shrugged. “’Course, I’m not gonna test that for myself, so I gotta take the lasses’ word for it.”

Perhaps thinking it would be best not to question the eccentricities of her newfound company, the archer quietly watched as the paladin apologetically prostrated herself before her redheaded companion, the latter slumped into her chair like a corpse. Her eyes drifted from the macabre scene to Heathcliff unsheathing his axe for what seemed to be the tenth time now, his eyes diligently going over its steel as though the condition of the cudgel was more important than the pale-faced girl with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Rebecca felt her stomach turn as her attention drifted to Rodya and Yi Sang, the two idly chatting away as though a vampire hadn’t just drained their friend of half her blood. Of course, she didn’t discount the possibility that this was a common occurrence and she, as a relative outsider, simply was overreacting to they probably considered some funny joke.

She also did not discount the possibility that she might in fact have landed herself in even more psychotic company than the cult of vampires.

Eventually, though, Don did eventually return to her feet, dabbing away the tears from her eyes with the leather sleeves of her breastplate. She coughed, clearing her voice, and turned to meet the archer’s gaze with her own, a faint shade of scarlet layered over her golden eyes. “Now, Lady Rebecca, there is one last thing we must address to perfect our ploy against Lady Anje.”

The girl tilted her head to the side quizzically, the anxiety rolling around in her stomach beginning to spread to the rest of her body. This wasn’t so much a red flag as it was an entire flagpole impaling her directly through the chest. “S-Sure,” she stammered, feigning a smile. “W-What’s up? I’m here ‘ta help if it’ll help save Nino.”

A wide smile spread across the paladin’s face. “How familiar are you with vampires?”

To an outsider, vampires may appear very cordial and friendly to each other. Like a pack of like-minded sociopaths, their get-togethers are simply excuses to carve out fiefdoms, indulge in splendorous conquests, and divide their prey for consumption.

This couldn’t be further from the truth.

Vampires were duplicitous. They were cunning, ruthless, paranoid… but most of all, they were fiercely territorial. Spawns and lesser vampires alike flocked to the one the purest, most ancient, most noble of blood, elders whose lineages stretched back to before the rising of the Gate and even back when most of the Sword Coast was but wilderness and coastal cliffs. Though they did not cast away outsiders nor did the very presence of a rival family instigate a civil war, an unspoken rule floated from the highest, most opulent spires of the Upper City to the dredges of the Underdark: Be polite, be cordial, and do not, under any circumstances, even consider threatening the reign of an established family. To dare raise a hand against the ruling head was taboo, a sacrilegious act invoking the ire of the resident family. To so brazenly act in defiance of the ruling Family’s courtesy was not merely a faux pas – it was a direct challenge, a claim to the territory that had been so carefully cultivated.

So, at first, one would assume this diminutive, barefoot elf that confidently strode down the hallway, bloodlust practically emanating from her like some type of infectious miasma, would soon be swarmed by every vampire within a few hundred kilometers, let alone the residents of the Falkenrath castle. She made no attempt to disguise her overflowing power, no attempt to hide her unmeasured ferocity, no attempt to mask the seething contempt for the spawn around her. Yet, still, the vampires shied away from Don, not a single one daring to look the girl in the eye. Even the guards, once diligently searching for their runaway, renegade princess, now stepped back in apprehension, their weapons lowered as Don uneventfully went down hallway after hallway. Was it cowardice, perhaps, that stayed their hand; so willing were they to kick an outsider while she was down, beaten and restrained so that she was little more than a hapless little elf in their clutches?

No, of course it wasn’t that simple. Rather, as each and every single vampire backed away from Don like some pestilence given form, each was acutely aware of a growing, simmering pressure sparked in response to Don’s passage. A callous hatred, an overwhelming sense of foreboding, and a suffocating aura that could be described no more succinctly than “pissed.”

None of Anje’s flock dared come between her and her quarry.

On first glance, the vampire that stood at the end of the next hallway was as inconspicuous as any other. In fact, one might even suggest she was somewhat underdressed compared to her contemporaries, draped in a tattered, black trenchcoat with a plain, modestly embroidered red dress underneath. Her brown hair, too, seemed too frazzled and unkempt compared to the excessively groomed and overdressed vampires flanking her, her red eyes devoid of the overwhelming arrogance that seemed second nature to Falkenrath’s flock.

Yet her smile was enough to put every hair on Don’s body standing on end. Cold, brutal, underlaid with an indescribable psychopathy only barely kept restrained under her mild expression. Anje Falkenrath, second kindred of the previous Falkenrath elder, master of Stensia, any person familiar enough with these particularly harrowing depths of the Sword Coast knew better than to simply dismiss the otherwise plain and unassuming appearance of Lady Falkenrath.

And those who did not would serve as a perpetual warning and reminder to the rest.

“Sancho,” Anje said, cocking her head in wonder. Her eyes ran up and down the elven vampire as though she was sizing up this pretender to her throne… or she was already imagining how she would dissect and dismember such an insolent pest. “I heard from one of my spawn that a girl from the Quixote family stumbled into our midst and was offering herself up as tribute. I see that my children have gotten rather inattentive.”

“Enough, Lady Anje,” the elf barked. A bloody lance flashed into her hand, its spiral tip distinctive of the Quixote clan. “Diversions aside, I’ve come to retrieve something of mine that was carelessly misplaced into your care.”

“Something of yours?” the vampire replied coyly, almost drunk on confidence. “Come now, Sancho. I’m aware of your… vivid imagination, but do you really think that the Falkenrath clan would be so careless as to-“

Anje paused, her eyes now focusing on a quivering speck behind Don. Though so small and so insignificant at first that it may as well have been a wandering mouse, the green-haired girl with arrows rattling in her quiver and her bow defensively brought up against her chest like a shield was enough to cause a lapse in the otherwise self-indulgent monologue the Falkenrath head had just past her fangs. Her eyes narrowed, her pointed nails digging briefly into her palms, and Don barely caught an annoyed grimace flashing across her otherwise perfect countenance. “… Yes, I’m aware that my kindred brought a mage for my festivities. That girl behind you, if I’m not mistaken, was her escort.”

“Yes,” Don huffed, raising her lance in opposition. “These humans are my vassals, my p-property. I seek your relinquishment of them at once.”

“Oh,” Anje clasped her hands together, her smile widening until her sharp, glistening fangs came clearly into view. “Is that so? And what of your other supposed thralls? I heard you were dragged in like a dog with a pair of mangy strays? Yet I don’t see them anywhere in sight.”

“Do not try to change the subject, Lady Anje,” Don spat, casting an arm protectively across Rebecca. “My retainers have already made their exit from Stensia. I am here to reclaim that which belongs to me.” Don smirked, the tips of her fangs poking out from her lips. “Or are you telling me that you would dare to abscond with Quixote tribute?”

The reply was short, succinct, and rather heated. Don remained unphased as she swept her lance across the hallway, slicing the bolt of fire in twain before it came even close to even singing her hair. The hallway grew quiet save for the faint flickering of the torches above and the scuttle of frantic footsteps as both vampire and nonvampire alike backed away, shying away from the unchecked bloodlust now radiating from the defiant Quixote girl who had all but challenged the authority of the Falkenrath head.

And the overwhelming rage once kept firmly underneath Anje’s brooding expression, now unleashed with a menacing snarl.

“You forget yourself, girl,” Anje hissed, slowly rising into the air. A trio of ruby lights flickered around her, dazzling missiles with but one target in mind. “You come into my castle, brandish your weapon at me, and think that you can issue demands from me? When I’m quite done with you, there won’t even be a drop of blood left to return to the remains of the Quixote estate.”

“Is that so?” Don lowered herself to a crouch, her spear raising in anticipation. “Prithee, Lady Anje. Impale yourself on my lance.”

A dull thud echoed the last fragments of resistance the Falkenrath guards put up, a rather paltry effort compared to the metallic juggernauts that had welcomed the redhead and her friends to Stensia’s harrowing embrace. Ishmael cracked her knuckles and rolled her head back and forth, the illusion falling away as her fiery red mane unfurled and fell down past her breastplate once again. She pursed her lips as her eyes surveyed the present situation; a myriad of unconscious and dead vampires strewn across the wooden floor in various states of bloodied heaps and dismemberment, a number of guards that seemed far, far too little for the quarry that allegedly was held prisoner in the confines of these back rooms. She flicked droplets of blood from her mace before wiping it clean on a nearby tapestry, paying no mind as its fragile, silken threads were immediately shorn off by the obsidian metal.

“Hey, I think I found them!”

Rodya’s voice beckoned from further down. Ishmael wasted no time, returning her mace to the straps on the back of her plate before breaking into a light jog. The empty thuds of her footsteps against the wood underneath would occasionally be punctuated by a distant echo, the castle shuddering in response as aftershocks of the two vampires’ clash. She’d had the unlucky fortune to see Don when she’d willingly indulged in the gifts of her bloodline and the lucky fortune to be just far off in the distance that she hadn’t become an unfortunate statistic in the ensuing aftermath of the paladin’s indiscriminate rampage.

The fact that the blows were being met in turn sent chills down the girl’s spine.

Focus, Ishmael. Don’s dealt with a beholder, a dragon, a lich, and Faust when the rent was overdue. Some stuck up vampire princess with a stick up her ass should hardly be of any concern. The redhead rubbed her temples, her attempts to ignore the percussive clash of the vampiric lords in the castle courtyard going much in vain. Her jog turned into a brisk run as though the paltry few seconds she would save would somehow be the difference between escaping the confines of this malignant citadel with their lives and the anxiety welling in her heart eating her alive. Her gaze flicked past overturned treasure chests, garishly trimmed suits of armor, overly embroidered banners, a surprising wealth of riches splayed out with all the care the artificer would give to a box of scrap metal. She wondered, if for a moment, whether Rodya had pocketed some gems or some gold coins in the middle of their search.

It didn’t take too long for Ishmael to find Yi Sang and Rodya. Her relief, though, was short-lived, marred by the distinct, pungent scent of blood permeating the air. Her nose wrinkled and she gagged briefly, the vile stench hitting her even before her eyes could catch the forlorn faces of her companions. Yi Sang’s face appeared paler than usual as he slunk against a wall, his face half-buried in the voluminous sleeves of his robes, while Rodya’s head hung from her shoulders, her wavy, brown hair masking the empty, ghastly stare coming from her eyes. The polished auburn of the wooden floors at the company’s feet soon turned a sickly shade of bright crimson as Ishmael’s eyes fell upon the sacrifices primed for Anje’s ritual.

Or, rather, what was left of them.

The kindest thought Ishmael could give was that the vampires had, at the very least, not mutilated the bodies beyond recognition. It was a rather poor and fleeting sentiment to have as her gaze lingered on each and every single corpse, man and woman and child all ravaged and gutted indiscriminately. With scratches and tears and bites that tore through flesh and sinew and bone with all of the grace and precision of some drunken butcher, Ishmael wryly thought that even dinosaurs would have been more clean and refined with their meals. The question was no longer how to convey the heart wrenching news to Remilia, but whether it would even be possible to identify the half-eaten remains of the innumerable bodies splayed across the room as one of her parents. She covered her mouth as she stumbled over the severed limbs and shattered skulls, trying not to pay too much heed to the viscera and gore that leaked from their cracked sockets and gaping wounds lest what was left of Ishmael’s breakfast come back to join the macabre display.

They knew, of course, that there was always the chance that they’d only return from Stensia with a corpse. The thought that they might not even be able to bring an intact body back for the girl to bury stuck itself deep into Ishmael’s chest like a knife and twisted.

No, there. She paused, eyes and hands trembling, as she saw a formless mass stir and rustle from among a pile of broken arms and eyeless heads. The redhead’s thoughts turned briefly to the harrowing expanse of the Underdark, of musky tombs and catacombs where the coffins of the interred would pop open as their group carelessly waltzed into their domain, the decaying faces of the undead grimacing as they took up their weapons and claws against the still breathing. Instinctively, her hand flew to the handle of her mace, ready to pounce upon and send what was still trying claw out of its grave back into it. Her arm was already beginning to straighten as the mace flew from the straps of Ishmael’s plate before Rodya’s voice cried out.

“Ish, wait!”

She froze, her mace halfway through its arc. Her held breath released, her teeth unclenching as she took in short gasps for air. She blinked away the glossiness in her eyes as the practiced reflex that overtook her arm was pushed to the back of her head, letting her stare down at the bound, whimpering girl huddled amidst a sea of bodies.

Fuck.

“S-Sorry,” the warrior grumbled through gritted teeth, hastily averting her gaze. Her face shone as bright as her red mane as Rodya quickly darted between the two, snatching Ishmael’s wrist and roughly forcing it behind the petrified girl’s back as she flashed a smile at the girl.

“Hey, uh… Nino, right?” Rodya asked, nudging her head to the side as to tactfully obscure the flustered redhead. “Don’t mind my friend here. She and her boyfriend have a one-track mind, just sorta bashing things that look outta line, you know?”

“Hey!”
“Hey!”

Ishmael’s embarrassed yell was matched by an equally irate Heathcliff, the barbarian looking up from his doddering trek among the mound of corpses with a scowl. Waving off the glare and the obscene gesture from her two companions, Rodya knelt down, her deft fingers quickly unraveling the knots cinching the rope across the mage’s wrists. “See what I mean?”

The green-haired girl nodded, her eyes still warily drawn to the girl that had a second ago threatened to smash her face in out of sheer reflex. “I-I see,” the mage said, pushing herself up and pulling her knees against her chest. “Still, thanks. I really thought… I mean, thanks for saving my life and all.”

“Hey, it’s our job and all, y’know?” Rodya said with a wink, kneeling down and wrapping her arms around the girl. “It’s just… I don’t suppose you saw anyone else here breathing or anything?”

The mage shook her head, a pang of guilt flashing across her face. “No. These bodies were… they were all dead when they dragged me here.”

“Shit,” Ishmael muttered under her breath.

“All dead, huh?” Heathcliff grumbled, heaving a beleaguered sigh as he stumbled over to the side of the room, shaking the blood from his gloves. “Damn.”

“… It is fortunate that not all of the sacrifices were needlessly slain before we could intervene,” Yi Sang chimed in, a sudden remark cast out to drive away the overwhelming silence that threatened to suffocate the group. He gestured to the entrance of the room, a noticeable, nervous jitter in his steps. “Loathe as I am not to give these poor souls a proper burial, we mustn’t keep Miss Don Quixote waylaid for too long.”

Ishmael shook her head with a labored sigh, flicking her hair behind her before turning to follow the wizard. “Yi Sang is right. It’d do nobody any favors if the only way Remilia ever learns about her folks is finding our bodies on top of them.”

Biting as the redhead’s remarks were, it stirred the remainder of the group from their morose inaction. Rodya planted her hand firmly on the girl’s shoulder, her pained smile providing a small but nonetheless welcome respite amidst the grim and brutal carnage surrounding them. As Ishmael and Heathcliff moved ahead, the scene of visceral butchery already giving way to thoughts of their inevitable escape, Rodya slipped behind the teary-eyed girl before slipping her hands underneath her armpits, pulling her up and over her shoulders before she was seated atop the rogue. They followed behind in a jaunty half-jog, with Yi Sang’s trailing behind, his thoughts, too, now preoccupied with a nagging sensation.

“Excuse me, Miss… Nino, is it?” he asked, his mouth partially obscured by his stroking fingers as though he was trying to decipher some cryptic riddle.

“Y-Yes,” the girl replied, turning her head to meet one of her saviors. “Thank you again, mister.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Yi Sang waved away her apology, eyes still fixated on the girl’s pale complexion. “You’re not from the Sword Coast, are you?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, “Rebecca and I… Nino, by the way, we’re from far to the east. You, uh… did you run into an archer with-“

“Green hair, bit of an accent, kinda chipper?” Rodya finished, cutting in. “Yeah, we freed her a while back. She’s part of the reason we’re out here.”

“O-Oh,” the mage breathed a sigh of relief, pressing her face into Rodya’s shoulder. “Thanks again, I really don’t know how to-“

“Hold up.”

Pausing mid-stride, Rodya tensed, the casual and lackadaisical atmosphere freezing over as an innumerable sea of eyes washed over the group. Ahead of the three, the wary Ishmael took a step back, her hand cradling the handle of her mace, while an amused Heathcliff cracked his knuckles, bouncing back and forth as his welling anticipation began to overflow. Past them, a contingent of vampiric guards were arrayed in a systemic, orderly line, their blades drawn and their fangs glistening as they methodically cut the room clean in half, slowly closing in on the group like an unstoppable hydraulic press. The rogue pressed her middle and forefinger against the middle of her brow, failing to chase away the faint, but irritable migraine that began to nag at her head. Several disguises, a litany of lies, a painstaking set of revolving stories meant to keep the Falkenrath guards constantly chasing rumors and ghosts… and yet somehow they still manage to end up on the receiving end of several armed and particularly uninviting guards.

Every. Damn. Time.

“… Perhaps we should have remembered to lock the door before we began investigating these quarters,” Yi Sang mentioned off-handedly, flourishing his staff.

Ishmael spun her head around, a glare freezing the wizard in place. “Yi Sang. Please shut up.”

Pursing her lips, the girl turned her attention back to the encroaching horde descending on the five. She counted two, five, ten, maybe twelve? It was an optimistic guess at best; the chances that they’d quietly subdue this new round of guards and slip back into the crowd completely unperturbed were optimistic at best. Surrender, of course, was probably out the question too; assuming the vampires didn’t decide to turn all five of them into shriveled, desiccated husks on the spot for being such a massive headache to deal with, the strenuous effort they’d no doubt put into ensuring their captives wouldn’t escape a second time would guarantee they wouldn’t see the sun until it was time to be hauled underneath the ominous blade of the courtyard’s guillotines.

So if a quiet escape was out of the picture and a quiet death was unappealing, Ishmael clapped Heathcliff on the shoulder, a weary sigh giving way to a smirk. “… Alright, Heathcliff. Let’s just do the usual.”

He chuckled, unsheathing his axe. “So we kill ‘em all, lass?”

Ishmael shrugged, shooting a nonchalant grin at the barbarian as she spun the mace in her hand. “I mean, yeah, worked the last couple of times. Don’t fix what’s not broken?”

A momentary pause, a wave of confusion rippling among the guards leading the procession as they saw their cornered prey share a nod and a laugh with all the carefree triviality of a night at a tavern. Some quizzically furrowed their brow, wondering if they’d simply gone mad from the stress, while others clicked their tongues or snorted in derision, raising their weapon to cut the two down where they stood. The ones closest barely had a chance to blink before the redhead sprinted forward, an utterly idiotic and suicidal gesture whose sheer incredulity left the first guard paralyzed, mouth agape in shock before the tempered steel smashed into his face, the crunching of bone shattering the tense and frigid quietude. No sooner had the guards began to process the audacity of the human who so carelessly charged their ranks did a bellowing roar shake the room, a bloodthirsty cry that would send the dinosaurs of the southern lands sprinting for cover. Their eyes in unison tore away from the warrior to the blurred, snarling mass of flesh and metal before it collided into their ranks.

If Ishmael was a surgical blade finding its way through the seam of metal connecting shoulder and breastplate, Heathcliff was a sledgehammer crashing through the layered defense with all the tact one would expect from a barbarian. Blood gushed, bones snapped, and vampires scrambled away as Heathcliff bisected one from hip to shoulder, ripping the top half off of the still-gasping guard before sending it hurtling into the crowd like a cudgel made of gore and steel. Pandemonium gripped the guardsmen as they staggered back, completely blindsided by the duo’s relentless advance. One vampire brandished his twin blades, slipping around the stonefaced Ishmael as she buried her mace in another’s face with a bloodied thwack. His heel spun, his face twisting into a maniacal snarl as he lunged forward, his blades aimed toward the girl’s neck. Ishmael turned a second too late, her hazel eyes widening as the black steel was but inches away from skewering her.

A flash of light halted its advance, accompanied by a deafening crackle that put even the still-rampaging Heathcliff to shame. As sparks of turquoise electricity leapt from the blade, Ishmael immediately backpedaled, her eyes still entranced by Yi Sang’s lightning bolt turning the vampire’s pale skin a ghastly black. Twelve became six as the unflappable Limbus adventurers tore through the ranks of the assembled guardsmen. Six became sixteen as the doors slammed open, a procession of frantic guards and unamused nobles alike swarming in at the dinner bell that was Heathcliff’s stomping and thrashing, his boots leaving sizable holes in the wooden floor beneath and his axe leaving headless guards and dismembered torsos in his wake. Ishmael huffed, gazing in admiration at the spectacle her barbarian compatriot left in his wake; not for too long, of course, as she nimbly dodged to the side before wheeling about, slamming the back of her fist against the vampire that attempted to feast on her exposed flank.

As he groaned and sputtered, blood gushing from his crumpled nose, Ishmael dashed forward, gripping the man’s shoulders before vaulting up and into the air, soaring gracefully among the sea of bodies as another bolt from the decisive Yi Sang sent their pursuers to the ground in varying degrees of blackened, charred flesh. Pulling her knees up to her chest, the girl somersaulted into the terminus of her arc before suddenly kicking out, her heel smashing into a frazzled guard’s neck with a sickening crack as his head bent at a grotesque angle. She pressed her foot forward, feeling flesh and bone alike bend underneath the weight of her foot before vaulting off of her dying perch, swinging underneath her as she backflipped through the air once again. Three satisfying crunches followed her arm as she felt her mace punch through several skulls, the world beneath her descending into a bloody mist punctuated by screams and obscured by bodies.

“Heathcliff!”

“I gotcha!”

Instinctively she reached out, her hand clasping with his and holding tight as he pulled her down and around, swinging her down and around in a twirl that would have almost looked comical if her steel boot didn’t slam into the surrounding vampires with concussive force of a sledgehammer. Twice they spun, the duo’s jovial laughter standing in sharp contrast to the guardsmen they left in ghastly, mangled piles before them, before Heathcliff’s fingers slid down the bottom of Ishmael’s palm and seized her wrist. She folded her legs as the barbarian, with a bloodthirsty smile spread wide across his face, sent the girl flying. The world around Ishmael became a blur, yet her eyes saw only the flinching guard before her as he staggered back, as if trying to comprehend the human projectile sent hurtling his way.

Then Ishmael’s mace silenced his thoughts, taking away parts of his frontal lobe in the process.

“Alright…” The girl stuck her landing, flicking bits of gore and blood from her even redder hair. A truly innumerable amount of bodies littered the floor, twitching limbs and a veneer of fresh blood coating the once pristine, oaken floor. Her eyes drifted from the floor to the expansive room before her as yet another wave of guards, as if on cue, filled the role of their fallen brethren, their pale, blank faces failing to betray any hint of trepidation at the sheer carnage the group had just displayed before them. She shrugged and rolled her shoulders, pointing her mace forward. “Okay, c’mon. I can do this all day.”

She felt her heart constrict in her chest as the last of her words left her lips. Of fucking course she couldn’t do this all day; every breath caused her lungs to burn and each heartbeat caused her muscles to ripple and scream in pain. She remembered the last time Don had thrust them knee-deep into a veritable ocean of marauding, frothing bandits. Sure, they’d managed to fight off forty of them before their ranks thinned just enough for them to make their escape, but not only did she have Heathcliff and Yi Sang assisting her but also Don casually throwing people around like ragdolls and, loathe as she was to admit it, the graceful, lethal beauty that was their leader, Faust, spearheading the charge, her blade easily carrying the weight of three Ishmaels. She only counted about twenty-five of them on the ground, and it didn’t look like the pack before her had gotten even remotely smaller.

“What’s wrong, Ish?” the lackadaisical Heathcliff sauntered up beside Ishmael, casually knocking over three nearby vampires by tossing a dead body at them. “Tired already?”

“Just a little bit,” she retorted, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Think Don’s having fun, at least?”

In a way, it was liberating feeling the wind between her toes, her feet no longer shackled by the magics coursing through the beaten leather of Rocinante. After a bite or two, it felt like her very body was as light as a feather, as though the bulky plate that adorned every inch of her skin was little more than a sundress billowing gently in a spring breeze. She could hear the slightest creaks of the floorboards as people scrambled over them in the panic, see the ripples in the air as a body torpedoed toward her, feel the very air in her lungs get pressed out of her as she rose her lance in defense, barely parrying Anje’s palm before it would have snapped her sternum clean in two.

“Nngh!” Don grunted, blood dripping from her palms as the handle had long since dug straight through her skin. The hallway flew past her in an incomprehensible blur before the mass of smeared paintings and gaudy tapestry gave way to an explosion of color, a kaleidoscope of dizzying lights that accompanied the piercing pain radiating from where her back had slammed into the wall. Instinct acted before her mind could think to parse her predicament as she rolled to the side, leaving only her ear to be narrowly clipped by Anje’s hand as it crushed the already cracking stone behind her into a plume of dust. She scrambled for her lance, plucking it up from the ground before swiping in a wide arc. Her retaliatory slash bounced off the wrist of the vampire lord as it parried the blow, sending both reeling. Vampire and nonvampire alike scurried and fled to the shadows as the two skid away, wiped the sweat from their faces, and dashed forward again, the impact of hardblood against bone causing a thunderous boom that sent paintings flying from the walls and vases clattering to the ground. This time, it was the blonde paladin that followed through, her right hand sliding off the handle of her lance before curling into a fist, lashing out at the exposed vampire’s face.

Though not nearly as monumental an impact, Don’s jab sent Anje staggering off to the side, the vampire lord flailing her arms in an uncharacteristic attempt to retain her footing. Her hand slid across her face, the pale skin slick with crimson blood, and a grotesque snarl replaced her dignified composure as she swept her arm out. Droplets of blood flicked from her hand, each one narrowing into fine needles before suddenly lurching forward, their aim set on the indignant upstart’s face. She rose her arm in defense, gritting her teeth as the hardblood projectiles burrowed straight through the plate and shredded the skin underneath, setting her nerves aflame. She winced, feeling her arm grow heavy and limp, though she blinked away the pain as she shifted her lance to her weaker arm, eyes tracing Anje as the vampire leapt up and over her, her claws poised for a brutal dismembering as she descended on the girl. A similar flame lit in her right arm as she readied her lance, thrusting her weapon in response. The blood bubbled and shimmered before exuding a brilliant, cerulean light, a flare of power that met the vampire’s claw with a resounding thud and a violent hiss. Anje was thrown back, slamming into the ceiling before falling back onto the floor with a crash. She stumbled to her feet, eyes seething with hatred as she massaged her hand, the skin peeling away and still burning with pale, blue flame.

“That light…” she hissed, boiling with rage and shaking with fury. “You’ve sworn an oath to Sigarda, of all beings?”

The hushed whispers and murmurs of the crowd viewing the spectacle went eerily quiet, an innumerable number of eyes falling on Don like the suffocating gaze of an almighty tribunal. Still gripping her limp wrist, Anje continued, a halo of flames igniting behind her.

“To dedicate an oath to the celestial beings who have done nothing but try to exterminate our kind…” Anje shook her head, her eyes empty of every emotion save contempt. “You’re worse than a traitor, you bitch. You’re less than the shit I scrape off of my boots.”

“I’m flattered,” Don replied bluntly, raising her lance in response. “But my oath is for justice and my devotion to my friends, not to the blood that runs through my veins. I’ve made peace with this since following this path.”

“I could give less of a shit what profane fantasies are going on in that empty bit you call a head,” Anje snarled, the flames roaring behind her as she sent a plume of fire surging toward Don. “I just want you to die!”

Don leapt to the side, curling herself into a somersault as the mystical fire seared the air just above her. As she cleared distance between her and Anje’s spell, she kicked herself back up to her feet and made another stab at the vampire’s throat. Her stab was met with a deflecting swat from the vampire’s palm, followed by a swipe from her free hand. This time, Don was far too close to simply backpedal away from Anje’s grasp, and the metal of her breastplate screeched as Anje’s claws effortlessly tore through it, taking away a chunk of Don’s flesh in the process. What was once a simple backpedal became a clumsy stumble before Don fell onto her butt, her breathing labored as she cradled the gushing wound across her chest.

“Sh-shit…” she gasped, her vision going hazy. The precious blood she longed to feel flowing down her throat now coated the front of her ruined plate armor, its bright scarlet the only color that seemed to remain as shadows began to claw at her peripheral vision. Her head lolled back, her eyes drawn to Anje as the vampire strode over the wounded girl, her arm already poised, funnily, like Don’s spear ready to skewer its unfortunate victim. Even as an unfeeling coldness crawled across Don’s limbs, she still managed to pull her left arm across herself, a flash of light raining over the girl as Sigarda’s protection blossomed into a protective shield to Anje’s first blow. The radiant cocoon of viridian light, dazzling as it was, shattered with a second blow. Don’s scream echoed across the castle as she felt her left arm fracture from wrist to shoulder, her hand jutting back until her knuckles were pressed against her forearm. She raised her right arm instinctively, her eyes shutting close as Anje’s bloodied claws went straight for the girl’s neck.

“Hey, asshole!”

Anje had but a second to react, quickly cradling her head as a corpse slammed into her, sending the two bodies hurdling into a nearby wall. Don didn’t even need to open her eyes to see the roaring Heathcliff towering over her, the barbarian wildly flailing his battleaxe about as the once awed servants now surged forward in defense of their master. A pair of hands slipped under the girl and Don bit down hard, swallowing a yelp as the brusque grip caused the bones in her broken arm to shuffle uncomfortably under her skin.

“Shit, sorry ‘bout that, Don,” Ishmael said, quickly pulling her hand back and around Don’s waist instead. “What happened to you? I thought you had this all planned out.”

“Mayhap… I underestimated the brutal savagery of the Falkenrath heir by… quite a bit,” Don joked, blood trickling from the sides of her mouth.

“I can tell,” the redhead replied, grimacing as her eyes skimmed over Don’s ravaged body. “Shit, where’s Faust when you need her? We need to get you out of here.”

Don tried to shake her head, though with her fading strength, it looked more like her head limply rolled from side to side as Ishmael flung the girl up and over her shoulder. Her eyes darted from the raging Heathcliff as he took one of the many gaudy portraits hanging across the walls and flung it into the crowd to one of the many guardsmen that were still pursuing the fleeing intruders, one’s blade raised overhead as its edge sought Ishmael’s head. She swore and wheeled about, deflecting the blade with a swing of her mace before barreling forward, tackling the man to the ground. He swore and hissed, his fangs shining in the candlelit hallways, before Ishmael’s sturdy boot sent his head back down with a thud. Flanking her, the nimble Rodya whirled her twin daggers around her like a veritable hurricane of knives, keeping the many vampires beginning to bleed into the skirmish from descending on the beleaguered group, while the ever-stoic Yi Sang sent another lightning bolt surging through the crowd, a resigned coldness reflected in his dull eyes off as both vampire and visitor alike crumpled to the ground in charred husks. The sea of humanity parted briefly, only for more vampires to seemingly crawl out from the walls and rooms, their frenzied eyes fixated on the adventurers.

Yet, amidst the carnage, the young mage once seated atop Rodya’s shoulders caught sight of her companion huddled against one of the ruined couches, a trio of arrows nocked as the once impromptu peace brought by Don’s and Anje’s duel had come to an abrupt halt. She dashed toward the archer, pausing only once to dodge a stray vampire’s claw before swinging down, a conjured, flaming axe sending the assailant to the ground in a screaming, burning wreck.

“Rebecca!” she cried, pulling up next to the archer.

“Nino?” Rebecca’s eyes widened before she breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah, Gods, you’re alright. Guess ‘ta crazy blondie there really was serious about her plan.”

“Plan? Uh…” Nino’s eyes skimmed the encroaching, enveloping crowd of vampires with a hint of concern. “… Well they said they had a plan.”

Whether the brilliant progeny of Don’s inspiration and Rodya’s ingenuity was to slip nimbly through the crowd of panicked vampires or to drive a stake into the heart of Falkenrath’s leadership, what seemed far more likely was that the reunion of the two groups would be short-lived before they were driven beneath Anje’s heel, literally or not. Rebecca’s eyes flitted between the limping Don and Ishmael, the once triumphant vampire barely clinging to consciousness, and a seething Anje as she crawled from the hole she’d been buried in, fragments of dust and debris clinging to her once immaculate cloak. The archer’s fingers interlocked with the mage’s as the two nodded in unison, their determination unwavering and resolute. As the archer readied her trio of arrows, a collage of glyphs sprung from the young mage’s hands, quickly unfolding into one, two, three runic circles, the air crackling and sizzling as the hallway suddenly became humid with mana. As Ishmael felt the hair on her skin all stand on end, she glanced back at the two enigmatic girls that, until that point, she admittedly had given little thought to other than being idle travelers caught in Stensia’s vicious web.

The following devastation may very well have been the intervention of the gods themselves. As the arrows surged through the concentrated vortex of condensed mana, the wooden shafts caught aflame, hissing and sputtering as their banal, oaken brown adopted a lustrous sapphire. Shooting forward like a rampaging dragon, they tore across the hallway with an accompanying sonicboom, a veritable railgun of compacted magical energy that shattered rock and bone purely by being in the vicinity, to say nothing of the bodies that had disintegrated into little more than a fine, red mist. The violent explosion of magical artillery came in and went in but a second, leaving the duo in the center of a small, fraying crater, the singed tile and shambling, burnt skeletons the only signs that such a miraculous and horrifying spell had occurred. Nino dropped to the floor, sweat caking her face as she clung to Rebecca for support, much like how Ishmael’s jaw dropped to the floor in pure awe.

For once, the haughty and arrogant vampires that viewed themselves so infallible compared to the vermin that continually skittered among their feet gave pause. A couple of prisoners giving the slip to the guards, a skirmish or two going the way of the supposed sacrificial offerings, many such occurrences could simply be written off as a freak coincidence, the whims of fate momentarily providing the insignificant worms a brief respite before they were eventually smothered under the Falkenrath boot, yet the display of utter devastation wrought by a mere adolescent girl from beyond the Sword Coast seemed less like a farce from the gods and more like actual divine retribution. Their movement was slow, their expressions tinged with a hint of concern, and the decisive Rodya was all too eager to seize the moment, plunging into the newly opened hole in the ranks with her twin daggers. An upward swipe blinded one while a deft stab silenced another before Rodya cartwheeled to the side, avoiding the flung body as it knocked several more of the hesitant vampires off their feet. Having already brushed off the sense of paralyzing wonder, Heathcliff was all too eager to join in the melee, sending the crowd fleeing with wide strokes of his axe while crushing the skulls of those unfortunate enough to trip and faceplant onto the ground underfoot. Ishmael shook her head, burying the thoughts swirling in her head as she held tightly onto the bleeding paladin draped over her shoulder. The green-haired archer followed suit, the mage clinging tightly to the girl’s back and neck like some fatigued toddler, while Yi Sang brought up the rear, marking their passage with a pillar of flame that set the cracked stone and torn tapestry alight.

An air of panic now gripped the fortress as the group forced through way through the myriad of guests and vampires alike, resistance tapering off as the guards soon found themselves brushed aside or trampled by the many guests now hurriedly making for the exit. Maybe at some point the group was indistinguishable from the fleeing patrons, or perhaps the resolve and morale of the Falkenrath clan was far, far more fragile than Don had anticipated. At some point, even Heathcliff had finally grown weary of swinging his axe about like a manic killer, finding the many indistinguishable masses around him were more interested in following his escape rather than barring his passage. The group snaked through innumerable turns and many identical hallways, the gaudy decorum now smeared with blood and strewn across the floor and walls as the party had descended into a complete riot and, much as Ishmael hated to admit, part of her was expecting their relative ease to be building up to some type of ambush.

Her heart rose as she saw the giant, towering doors at the end of the hallway, a stream of humanity pouring through it like a crack in a once sealed river. She pressed her palm into Don’s, whispering a silent prayer as she followed Rodya and Heathclfif through the exit, breathing in the crisp, autumn air of the castle grounds.

And her heart sank as the auburn twilight matched the sea of blood that awaited her.

What may have once been polished marble and an immaculately cut lawn were now soaked in blood and coated in viscera, an ocean of corpses stretching across the courtyard in various states of grisly dismemberment. Towering over the carnage, a large contingent of Steel Watchers whirred impatiently as their helms turned to Ishmael and her companions, a suffocating lethality emanating from the constructs. Their once lustrous steel now caked in gore and their blades still bearing the remains of many a fleeing guest, it may as well have been a sight from the Hells themselves.

The redhead took a step back, suddenly feeling a momentary reprieve from her fleeting thoughts of the winding corridors behind her. As she glanced back, her face grew pale as a set of seething eyes pinned her where she stood. Though her cloak was now coated in dust and her beauteous face now marred with scratches and bruises, Anje’s very presence still exuded an unmatchable pressure, her very visage threatening to steal the air straight from Ishmael’s lungs. Still clinging tightly to Don’s body, the paladin stirring uncomfortably as the girl caught sight of Anje with a whimper, Ishmael shared a glance with the remaining three.

For all intents and purposes, they were almost certainly fucked.

Yet not a word of caution nor thought toward a tactful surrender left each other’s lips as Ishmael barreled down the steps, her charge met by the sharp whoosh of crossbow bolts as the constructs opened fire on the suicidal girl. She ducked and spun, wincing as the weight of the barely conscious elf began to weigh on her shoulder, and swore as the steps surrounding her exploded in plumes of fire and dirt. Her legs wavered and her body ached, yet whatever pain was still shooting through her body was pushed to the side as she neared the first construct, mace in hand. The hulking suit of armor raised its arm-mounted crossbow, leveling its aim directly at the redhead’s snarling face, only for a swift bash to send it upward with a pop and a crunch, the bolt going wide and into the castle walls with a distant boom. Before it could level its bow for a second volley, a roaring Heathcliff crashed into its knees, sending it stumbling to the ground. Its helm shuddered, frantically swapping its attention to the barbarian, and for a second, it almost looked like an expression of horror crossed the emotionless construct before Heathcliff’s axe embedded itself squarely into the top of the helm.

Beside him, Yi Sang moved with a nimbleness much unlike what his wiry figure would convey, giving the constructs little time for their lumbering blades to move in pursuit before a thunderous burst exploded from his palms. The Thunderwave sent the Steel Watchers reeling back, their gargantuan weight the only thing keeping them still upright in light of the spell, but the momentary paralysis was enough for Rodya to snake up the back of the closest golem, plunging her dagger deep into its visor before gripping its handle tight and swinging down, embedding her second into its knee joint. The construct groaned, shuddered, and knelt down, its blade ineffectively going wide as Rodya swept casually underneath it before leaping up to her feet and delivering a decisive kick directly to the side of the helm.

She immediately pulled her leg back, gingerly rubbing her foot. “Ow ow ow ow ow, how the fuck do you two make that look so easy?”

“Practice,” Ishmael replied cooly, sweeping in and slamming her mace into the Steel Watcher’s helm. It fell back with an echoing crash, taking two of the still recoiling constructs with it. Behind her, Rebecca followed up Ishmael’s sudden blow with a volley of arrows, the humble arrowtips catching fire with a snap of Nino’s fingers. The remaining constructs shielded themselves with their arm, the blood-coated metal turning a gnarled black as blood and flames intermixed over the once pristine steel, before they leveled their crossbows at the fleeing group. Three bolts fell to the side, exploding in columns of fiery dirt that flanked the group’s retreat, while four more were sent astray with a defensive shockwave from Yi Sang.

The first row of steel behemoths cleared, Ishmael’s eyes already locked with the second and final line of golems that barred their escape route. Already a flurry of thoughts rushed through her head as her gaze swept over each in turn. Four in total, their blades defensively raised to counter a preemptive volley from the archer and the two wizards in company. Already Heathcliff began cackling madly as he plucked a greatsword from the ground to replace his battleaxe, readying to throw the weapon – and likely himself – directly into one of them. If she followed quickly after and struck at their legs, they’d likely move to intercept her, leaving their flank open for a twin Cone of Cold from the two. Rodya and Rebecca could go after their knees, leaving them crippled enough for them to slip under the portcullis. She glanced toward Rodya, the charismatic rogue returning it with a wink as she plucked two arrows from Rebecca’s quiver. As Heathcliff surged ahead, blade raised overhead, Ishmael readied her mace and knelt into a-

“That’s quite enough.”

And then Anje dropped in front of Ishmael and punched her straight in the chest.

Ishmael’s vision blurred. It took her a solid two seconds before she realized she was flying through the air, two more before she realized she had hit the ground with a painful thud, leaving her and the coughing Don Quixote sprawled on the ground. Blood trickled from her lips as she weakly rose her head, each limb of her body now feeling like a useless brick of lead. Through tears and fuzzy darkness, she could just barely make out the remains of her chestplate, the metal buckled and torn where Anje’s palm had made contact. Each breath felt like daggers stabbing her directly in the chest; she figured she probably broke two… no, make that three ribs.

Straining to lift herself up, the redhead could only watch in muted, hapless horror as the remainder of the party converged on Anje, the vampire lord deftly cartwheeling out of Heathcliff’s range before lunging forward, sending him skidding across the ground to the chorus of cracking bones. She wheeled about in time to parry Rodya’s dagger, though not in time to intercept the accompanying lightning bolt that sent Anje flying. The electrical smite that Yi Sang was all too familiar with would have left even some of Anje’s more elite guards as little more than charred skeletons, yet Anje merely spun about in mid-air before holding her position in a defensive hover, robes singed and smoldering and skin black and smoking. Though very much not dead, the unbridled anger that pulsated from the hovering vampire may as well have been the heat of the sun itself. The archer and the two wizards loosed another volley, a hailstorm of arrows and firebolts and icy knives in a wide enough barrage to cut off any avenue of escape.

The wide berth of projectiles, arrayed such that it would be near impossible to dodge or fly out of the way, served little impediment to one who simply smashed through the projectiles with a flick of her wrist. Anje swiftly descended like a fiery meteor before crashing into ground in front of the four, sending all of them toppling to the ground. Rodya quickly leapt to her feet, flipping her dagger about before plunging it down on the vampire standing still in the smoking creator before them. She had only a second to notice Anje’s venomous smile as it sent the dagger flying with a swipe of her claws, and a half second further to track Anje’s arm as it quickly descended into her shoulder, sending her spinning into Rebecca and sending the already winded archer back down to the ground with a groan.

“Rebecca!” Nino cried, scrambling to her feet with an aura of pale, blue light emanating from her palms. “Y-You monster! I’ll-“

And in the span of a single breath, the vampire was now towering over the young girl, her furious threat extinguished like a candle against a raging gale. She barely raised her arms to defend her face before Anje swept the girl off her feet with a swipe of her claws, sending her crashing to the ground and a terrified scream. Anje quickly followed with a crouch as she snatched Nino’s ankle in her arm, twisting her body about as she flung the flailing girl directly into Yi Sang as the wizard staggered to his feet, still trying to assuage his aching head. The two collapsed back to the ground in a pathetic heap.

“N-No…” Ishmael coughed, clambering to her hands and knees as she desperately crawled toward the vampire. She didn’t try to look at the empty stare of Yi Sang as blood trickled from his mouth, at the limp Heathcliff buried under a pile of flaming scaffolding, at Rodya and Rebecca as the two writhed painfully in what could have very well been their death throes. No, as she pressed the end of her mace into the ground and forced herself up to her knees, she kept her sight and her mind both focused on Anje as the vampire lord surveyed her gruesome spectacle. Sheer determination, pure panic, and a shot of adrenaline where all that kept the girl upright as began to pull herself forward. If she could just land one good hit, then maybe they-

And then the Steel Watcher’s foot fell down on Ishmael’s back.

She absolutely could feel her ribs cracking underneath her as she slammed back into the ground, her pained yelp more like a drowning gargle as she felt the copper taste of blood lap against her tongue. Less of an indignant warrior and more like a pinned animal, she flailed haplessly underneath the construct’s heel, her eyes bulging and her heart racing as she struggled to take in any type of breath. Her fingers clawed against dirt and stone until she felt the nails begin to rip from their roots, her toes pressed against the soles of her boots until she felt the bottom begin to pop out, yet still for all of her herculean struggles she might as well have tried to swing at the gods themselves for what little it amounted to in the end. She swore and she screamed and she sobbed, yet the only response came from her cracking ribs as the golem increased the pressure on her back until it threatened to snap her spine clean in two.

Dammit. Dammit, dammit dammit dammit, come on, Ishmael. Her thoughts screamed at her to get up even as the rest of her body screamed in agony, refusing to budge a single inch. The mace slipped from her fingers as her hands went slack, pain shooting up her neck and down her legs. Her palms pressed into the mud and grime but her arms refused to push her up to her knees – not that the metallic foot digging into her back would have given her any room. Through bleary vision, she saw Yi Sang and Rodya limply hang in the Steel Watchers’ hands like ragdolls, a duo of golems surround the unconscious Heathcliff and begin to unbury him from the scaffolding entombing him, and a series of cables binding Nino’s and Rebecca’s arms together.

And Anje, with a triumphant smirk across her face, sauntering down the flaming, blood-bathed courtyard before kneeling down and retrieving her trophy by the throat, lifting the barely conscious Don Quixote up until their eyes met.

“It was an almost laudable effort, if I must be entirely honest,” she jeered, tracing her claws across Don’s cheeks until they drew blood. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything more but abject failure from a vampire who forgets the dignity of her own race.”

Fuck. Fuck! Ishmael smashed the back of her heel into the golem’s foot until her legs went numb, yet the golem refused to budge a single inch. Her blood boiled as she watched Anje’s fingers trace the outline of Don’s chin, leaving a small trickle of blood as the bruised skin parted with ease from a touch of the vampire’s claw. She seethed as she was but a hapless spectator to the vampire hooking her finger underneath the joint of Don’s shoulder plate. With an ignoble pop, the piece of armor dropped to the floor. The blonde moaned indignantly, her hands batting away at Anje’s arm, though with the little strength she still had left in her battered body, she was less of a bother than a troublesome mosquito. With thud after thud, Anje methodically stripped the elf of her armor. The undershirt beneath was of little resistance to the vampire’s claws, leaving her chest and back bare as the woolen fabric fell in shredded heaps. Don might’ve blushed in embarrassment if she wasn’t struggling to even keep conscious.

“Fortunately for us, my dear little Sancho,” Anje hissed, digging one of her claws into Don’s exposed back. “You blood is quite good enough for my purposes.”

The chilling, bloodcurdling scream that tore from Don’s lips might as well have frozen Ishmael’s heart then and there, a horrific, agonized wail that echoed amongst the burning courtyard, across the abandoned ramparts, and into the empty trees far beyond the castle. Though her face was barely able to pull itself out of the dirt, Ishmael could clearly see Don’s pale, unblemished skin painted a ghastly crimson as blood gushed from the meticulous carvings slowly etched into her back. From shoulder to side and from side to hip, the glyphs were ornate, elegant, and ghoulishly alien, a complete mystery to Ishmael save for the description still nestled in the back of her head from only a few hours ago.

The tale of the dead language, Kozakuran, where a vampire attempted to sacrifice one of their own for power beyond imagination.

Ishmael’s frenzied thoughts all at once seemed to disintegrate, the pain from her body fading away as each sensation numbed and dimmed until all that was left was the sight of Don, her beloved, longtime companion since setting off on her own, thrashing wildly in the vampire’s grip as her skin was expertly torn by Anje’s claws. On instinct, she reached out, snatching a handful of dirt from the ground, and flung it upward. Bits of mud and grime splattered against the visor of the golem, earning little but an inquisitive tilt from the golem’s head as it looked down on the cockroach beneath its boot.

“Hey, asshole!” she screamed, sticking out her tongue. “That it? Did your master run out of material and make you out of tin?”

It was a stupid gamble, assuming that an animate suit of armor, one more than thrice the size of Heathcliff, would even understand a single word the redhead vomited into its face, let alone care. It could have simply paid no mind to her and left her to flail helplessly against the boot pinning her to the ground while Don’s tortured screams caused her mind to white out. Maybe the construct would increase its pressure until it snapped Ishmael’s spine cleanly in two. Or perhaps it would be particularly efficient and simply crush Ishmael’s skull with its other foot, silencing her heckling with a satisfying crunch. If anything, antagonizing the golem was more or less like pressing a knife to her throat and sliding across.

And yet, the golem’s foot raised slightly, the gears whirring and the pistons whistling as it readied to stomp down harder on Ishmael until her pelvis was as flat as a pancake.

Slightly, however, was enough for the warrior as she nimbly rolled out of the way, escaping the reach of the Steel Watcher’s foot as it pulverized the ground she once lay. She kicked herself up to her feet, the once paralyzing agony radiating across her body now barely more than an awkward cramp from a lumpy bed as she surged forward, plucking her mace from the ground and raising it high above her head. Her wide, bloodshot eyes were fixated on Anje, her rabid scream enough to make even the berserking Heathcliff look positively tame in comparison. She leapt, hands tightly gripping the handle of her mace as she swung down.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.”

An echoing clang reverberated throughout the courtyard. Ishmael’s teeth ground together, her wild and enraged glare slowly morphing to one of abject horror as it followed the end of her mace into Anje’s outstretched palm, a single stream of blood trickling down from the vampire’s wrist the only sign that Ishmael’s desperate, violent charge had even phased the vampire. A coy, no, frighteningly devilish smile spread across Anje’s face as she drank in Ishmael’s newfound horror. With a single flick, she tore the mace free from Ishmael’s hands and sent it hurtling into a wall where it snapped cleanly in two. Her hand snapped around, snatching Ishmael by the throat and holding her next to Don where the two girls gasped for air and batted ineffectually against the vampire’s arms.

“For a human to have so much… affection to one of us,” Anje mused, turning her gaze toward Don. “And yet… I can see faint scars where your fangs clearly pierced her, Sancho. Yet I can’t detect a single bit of your bloodline in her. Do you not think she would be lovely thrall? Or, perhaps, even a fellow kindred of yours?”

“G-Go to hell…” Don croaked.

“Tch, such vulgar language,” Anje shook her head before throwing the two girls onto the ground. Don barely had time to gasp for air before one of the Steel Watchers lumbered over on Anje’s signal, taking the girl’s wrists into one of its hulking palms and hoisting her back into the air. The vampire made sure Don’s eyes were on her as she slid her fingers into the battered joints of Ishmael’s plate armor. With but a few simple tugs, the armor was soon in pieces across the floor, with the undershirt beneath following behind in jagged cuts. Ishmael winced as Anje slid her fingers across the sickeningly purple bruise spread across her midriff, the adrenaline that had quieted her pain long since evaporated into the ether. She put up little resistance as she, too, was hoisted into the air, unable to do little more than mouth a feeble apology to the weary elf.

“You know, Sancho, I was going to start the ritual by using you as a catalyst by which to funnel all of the life force donated by our lovely repertoire of guests,” Anje began with a singsong chuckle, grabbing Don’s face and pressing her fingers into her bleeding cheeks. “But, alas, there were forewarnings that even a fabled vampire such as yourself might be insufficient to serve as the focal point for this little curiosity the Szarrs fished up.” She paused as she slid between the two, licking the tip of her bloodied claw before lifting it up and over before sticking it directly into Ishmael’s back. “It’d be a shame if you burnt yourself out before I finished channeling even an iota of the power we’d assembled here.”

“Nnnnnngh!” Ishmael grit her teeth, feeling the claws rake across her back.

“Ishmael!” Don cried, a sudden, desperate fervor fueling her otherwise exhausted body. “Anje, stop this at once! I-I’ll do whatever you want, just-“

“Let this little girl of yours go?” Anje chuckled, shaking her head at the sheer incredulity of such a request. “Don’t be silly, Sancho. While a human is clearly less capable of handling such pure, concentrated mana being funneled through them, she should still serve as an effective, secondary vessel to complement yours.” She flashed a smile before she slid her opposite hand across Don’s back, her fingertips tracing the incomplete glyphs before digging in where she’d left off. “Now, hold still, alright? Your friend here interrupted our little bonding session.”

“Nnnnnnggggggggaaaaaah!” Don screamed, kicking wildly. Blood dripped from her ankles and toes as Anje’s claws began to trace up from her left hip and toward her shoulder, a beauteous calligraphy dyed in pure scarlet slowly unfolding over her once unblemished skin. Her anguished, tortured wails were soon joined by Ishmael’s as Anje’s claw cleanly tore through her skin and dug down, her body exploding in pain as she flailed helplessly in the iron gauntlets suspending her. A plethora of colors danced across her vision as the searing, blistering agony shot up her spine and down to her toes. Her head lolled, spatters of blood dripping from her lips as she coughed, her mind blank save for the excruciating, unbearable torture assailing her body.

“Gnnnnnnnnngh…” Ishmael’s voice dribbled out of her lips, her mouth half-agape, as though Anje was digging her claws directly into the back of her head rather than beneath her shoulder. The vampire clicked her tongue, retracting her sharpened nails only to slide them under Ishmael’s chin and pull the girl’s dazed face toward her.

“Don’t worry, my good friend,” she purred, sliding her finger across Ishmael’s face until she poked the girl’s nose, leaving a trail of blood where she’d carved a small car. “I’m aware human constitution is less… durable than us vampires. I’ll be nice and slow with you. You’d be far less use to me dead.”

“P-Please…”Ishmael’s ragged voice came, tears and blood intermixing across her face and dripping from her chin. “Don… L-Let her…”

“You must be kidding me,” Anje rolled her eyes, cackling hysterically. She ruffled the redhead’s bloody mane before digging her nails into her shoulder, carving a wide line across her’s and Don’s backs. She smiled as their bloodcurdling screams echoed across the courtyard, eliciting little but winces and pitiable frowns from her captured companions. “To have a human show such doting affection and adoration to one of my own. It would also be so charming if it wasn’t so… hideously pathetic.” She shook her head as she turned to Don, accidentally digging her nail deeper into Don’s skin until she saw the elf squirm. “My, Sancho, what have you been doing while out cavorting with the cattle? Do you consider her your trusted friend? A confidant, even? Or… hm… you wouldn’t dare do something so disgusting with such a lesser creature, would you?”

Don’s head sagged. What little strength still remained in her was now lying in pools dripping beneath her feet, the light in her golden eyes fading to a dull luster. Anje pouted, furrowing her brow in irritation, before bringing herself up against Ishmael’s exposed arm. Her tongue slid up and down her exposed skin, causing the girl to tense up at the sickly, chilling touch and the disgusting sensation of the vampire’s saliva sliding down her arm.

And then Anje bore her fangs.

“N-No!”

The vampire stopped mid-bite, her fangs but centimeters away from piercing Ishmael’s arm. Ishmael’s breaths came in short, staccato bursts, her heart pounding as blood gushed from the wounds in her back, pain shooting from every inch of her body. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the blonde paladin that had mustered the last bit of her strength to reach out, Don’s eyes widened in a mix of desperation and despair. The paladin bit her lip as her head sank, bowing pitifully. “… Please, Lady Anje. Anything but that.”

“Hmmm, to see someone of the noble Quixote clan sink so low,” Anje chuckled, a devilish smirk spread wide across her face. “Thank you for embarrassing yourself so, Sancho. I promise to dedicate my drink of your little friend her in your honor.”

And, even as Don screamed and kicked and begged and sobbed, Anje wheeled about and took hold of Ishmael’s arm, bearing her jaw wide before she-

Stopped, very suddenly, the smug conceit evaporating entirely from her face. She suddenly slunk away from the two girls, a distinct and altogether uncharacteristic expression of apprehension spread across her face. Though she strained to keep herself awake through the numerous gashes and wounds now lining her body, though her vision grew black and hazy, Ishmael could make out Anje’s shifty eyes as she slunk back defensively… as well as the beleaguered Don beginning to tense up, her eyes gazing to something beyond the horizon.

Though Castle Falkenrath was never known to be a bustling hub of activity in Stensia, a region that was of course known for its fabulous trading avenues and prolific cultural exchanges, the atmosphere of the imposing citadel seemed even quieter than usual, something akin to the void of a bag of holding some unfortunate soul had been sucked into. Standing just outside the castle entrance, an unassuming quartet gazed into the bloody courtyard past the opened gate with piqued interest, eyes drawn to the few Steel Watchers gathered in the center with a gaggle of bodies held tight in their grip, then to the dismembered and splattered bodies staining the browning grass a bright red. The first of the group, a towering monk nearly a head above their roguish leader, pursed her lips as she oversaw the gruesome massacre. Her long, red hair flicked this way and that as she hummed and hawed over the sight, the scene apparently conveying a scene of… complete confusion to her.

“Huh,” the monk mused, tilting her head in wonder. “You know, when the mistress described the adventurers she’d gotten to take a crack at Lady Falkenrath’s forces, I only really expected them to rile them up and draw their attention away from the border. Honestly, looks like some kinda tornado just blew past here.”

“That motley crew did exceed expectations, it seems,” the leader commented, brushing one of her silvery twintails behind her with a yawn. Dressed not unlike one of the many maids that scurried about throughout the castle’s winding halls, from a glance the innocuous girl may not have appeared as anything more than the attendant for some lackadaisical noble out for some inspired journey. Only on a closer glance would one notice the two knives concealed in her sleeves or the string of knives strapped to her thighs and across her waist. And, of course, one close to the seemingly innocent maid would notice the barely-concealed killer intent that she exuded with each measured, elegant step. Though the monk was the most imposing presence of the lot in terms of stature, she may as well have been a mere passerby, overshadowed by the overwhelming splendor of the rogue’s aura.

“Looks like there’s still some stragglers from that group still clinging to life,” the monk observed, tossing an inquisitive glance toward the rogue. “Lady Sakuya, should I?”

“We will need to clean out the Falkenrath constructs in order to secure the castle,” the rogue noted, shrugging nonchalantly. “Please avoid any unnecessary collateral, Meiling.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” Meiling rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, a sly grin spreading across her face as she crossed the threshold into the castle. Several Steel Watchers turned their attention to the enigmatic interloper that so casually strolled into their midst, the girl yawning as she rolled her arm in a wide, circular manner before stretching them above her head. Though she was pretty tall for an unassuming human, she probably only came up to the golem’s thighs in height, with her embroidered, emerald robe serving as little deterrent to the behemoth blades and explosive bolts leveled at her. Her green eyes sparkled as the monk flicked her red hair behind her, giving the golems a cheeky smile

and vanishing.

Naught but the ominous autumnal breeze accompanied the bewildered golems as they laboriously stared at the ground where the monk once stood. One of the Steel Watchers stepped back, its visor scouring the area as it trained its crossbow across each and every shadowy corner. “Lost visual on unknown hostile. Scanning, preparing to enga-“

With a sudden rush of wind, the monk materialized in front of the golem, cutting off its statement with a titanic punch square to its helm. A dizzying, crackling buzz came from its shattered helmet as it stumbled back, the girl riding the curve of its plate to just below its chest before delivering a rolling kick as she bounced off. The golems fell like hapless dominos, each crashing into the other in a heap much unlike the intimidating, indomitable guardians that had lined Stensia’s roads. Meiling hit the ground into a sprint, dashing into the trajectory of one of the Steel Guardian’s falling blades without a care in the world. Her arm wrenched back before surging forward, her fist colliding with the golem’s blade with all the force and echo of a thunderbolt. Even the stoic and emotionless golem seemed taken aback as the monk’s fist plowed straight through the blade and through its chestplate, crushing both like they were simple paper mâché props. A second uppercut sent its head flying before Meiling seized the toppling giant, heaving it up before throwing it directly into three more golems as they ineffectually tried to surround the monk.

Rodya, once resigned to whatever dismal fate lay at the end of the vampire’s sadistic whims, seized the newfound opportunity as the golem restraining her and her sickly wizard companion was thrown off its feet by a stray arm plunging directly into its head. Wriggling free from its loosened fingers, she slipped to the ground, catching Yi Sang as the golem collapsed in a heap of dust and screeching metal. Quite cognizant of the carefree monk traipsing about the battlefield like some humanoid tornado, she grabbed the wizard’s head and pulled it down, the two scurrying away from the hulking constructs as they were summarily dismantled one after the other. As the golems were knocked aside like rag dolls, Rebecca wriggled out of her restraints before cradling the bleeding Nino in her arms, sweeping her up and out of the brawl as the golem once towering over them was pummeled flat under the monk’s heel. The once solid line of imposing sentinels broke and fractured, several swinging wildly at the redheaded monk that effortlessly ducked and waved through their blades like it was some obstacle course for children. Others, catching sight of their fleeing quarry, turned their crossbows on the rogue and the wizard, loosing a volley of their explosive bolts at their exposed heads.

And if they’d come even a few feet close to their mark, the resulting explosion would have likely left the two bleeding out in a ditch. The idea might’ve rushed through the brunette’s head as a rush of wind blew past her, almost like a protective embrace warding off the hissing bolts at the edge of her hearing. She glanced back, almost expecting to see the monk grinning ear to ear as she barred their path.

The lone girl that seemed smaller than the wizard; nay, even their elvish paladin was an unexpected sight. Much like the enigmatic monk, the mysterious girl was dressed in a rather modest, pink dress, something almost bordering on a nightgown, even, but nothing resembling the conventional gear the rogue and the wizard were adorned in. Rodya, truthfully, was about as magically inclined as a giant rock, yet even she could feel an acute, almost suffocating presence emanating from their savior, as though the air around her was saturated with mana to the point where it may as well have been toxic to lesser beings.

Before her, the frozen remains of the crossbow bolts were strewn across her feet, their explosive fuses buried under sheets of snow and ice. The golems hesitated only briefly before continuing their assault, another volley of shots aimed to bury the interloper under shrapnel and fire. Yet a flick of her wrist was all it took to deflect the wall of bolts that hurtled toward her, a golden globe of invulnerability flashing to life and dissipating in a single breath. Even as the spell fizzled, her free hand shone with a scarlet light, giving little time for the Steel Watchers to break ranks before the retaliatory fireball was sent back in turn. Having also turned to observe, Yi Sang could only speculate the mana the mysterious wizard funneled into that one spell, the resulting blast sending a heat wave that threatened to burn his face. Very little remained of the gathered mob save the scorched remains of several melted sheets of metal, the resulting crater something created by a solar flare from the sun itself.

“Woah,” Rodya whistled, the aches of her battered body giving way to the dumbfounded awe sweeping over her. “… How come you never do something like that, Sangie?”

“The exertion would kill me,” Yi Sang replied bluntly. The two tensed as the enigmatic wizard turned to face them, her violet eyes laden with disinterest as she acknowledged the four with a nod. She ran a hand through her long, violet hair, her face free of sweat and absent any slight burden from what Yi Sang could guess was a monumental, borderline cataclysmic show of mana. As she turned, a hulking Steel Watcher practically threw itself in front of her, its blade raised to bisect the wizard cleanly in two. Rodya’s eyes widened as she scrambled for a blade from the ground while Yi Sang already uttered a protective cantrip under his breath, sweat running down his neck as he already began to saw the blade begin to descend on the girl’s unprotected head.

Yet she sighed and nonchalantly placed her hand against the surface of the golem. In but a single second, the blade froze mid-air as the back of the golem exploded with a loud bang. The lifeless Steel Watcher collapsed to the ground in a heap of scrap metal, much like the once imposing mass of dauntless constructs that were reduced to bundles of scrap metal and twisted steel under the peerless monk’s relentless assault.

Very little remained of the once stalwart defenses of the Falkenrath fortress save for a seething Anje and her remaining two captives, still held tightly in the grip of one of her still remaining Steel Watchers. The vampire’s eyes snapped between the cheerful monk, the girl vaulting over another golem before grabbing it by its shoulder and heaving it up and along with her before smashing the flailing golem into another with a deafening crash, and the solemn wizard, her lips chanting a silent prayer even as a trio of moonbeams descended from above, utterly eviscerating the surrounding golems in holy light until they were smoldering fragments of iron and steel at her feet. Both were markedly more dangerous than the vermin she’d been sweeping up moments ago, sure, but a nagging sensation in the back of her head still keep her tense, an innate, primal fear that screamed out to her to flee, to panic, to cut loose and leave the world around her bathed in blood lest her inaction leave her bleeding out in the courtyard. It was a peculiar and altogether unsettling feeling, a sense of dread that she’d not felt in years, one that rattled her once unflappable demeanor even as she whipped her head back and forth, as though chasing some invisible shadow. She wrinkled her nose, the stench of blood… no, of bloodlust wafting about the tumultuous battlefield. The distinctive, unbridled aura of another clan.

Another clan other than Quixote.

A spark of red ignited in the sky, a split second that barely afforded Anje time to leap out of the way. If the wizard’s fireball was a meteor, the impact wrought by the enigmatic newcomer might’ve been likened to the beginnings of those ancient creation myths, the very earth splitting apart and coming loose from the monumental blow. The vampire bore her claws, eyes already filled with rage and animosity as she met the gaze of the lone silhouette slowly rising from her smoking crater. She was young, far younger than even the green-haired mage and her archer companion, a cherubic face topped by golden hair and accentuated by brilliant, scarlet eyes. Her red dress, too, seemed overly casual for a battlefield, something short of what a Baldurian noble’s daughter would wear to bed, with simple embellishments and a silken fabric dyed a plain shade. Only the ghoulish, curved sword in her hand, both handle and blade of obsidian black with the end blossoming out into a peculiar, flower-shaped tip, bore any indication the girl was anything more than some lost child.

That, and the fangs that poked out from her mouth.

“Flandre,” Anje hissed, her own eyes glowing a demonic red. “I see now. Conniving little bitch.”

“Sister said that I could come play!” Flandre cheered, her carefree innocence belied by the hulking blade slung over her shoulder. It rose and fell, the blackened steel igniting in a roar of flame. “I’m so happy that you finally have some free time to play with us, Auntie Anje!”

“Auntie,” Anje spat, sounding out the word like it was some archaic slur. “Of course the smug little harlot would refer to me like that.”

Though her sharpened claws looked ready to lunge for the girl’s throat at a given moment, there was an obvious shift in Anje’s stance. In her bloodstained, primal skirmish tossing Don and her friends about, she snarled and leapt here and there more like a werewolf than a vampire, her stance low and her movements unpredictable before lashing out with an animalistic snarl, the brutality of wild and unhinged swings bereft of tact, grace, or mercy. Yet, the seething, careless barbarism that defined the Falkenrath line was absent, her arms raised in a defensive posture and her posture abnormally straight and tense. It was a level of caution that she’d not even shown to the haughty Don Quixote as she fought with the full force of the Quixote Hardblood Arts. Ishmael bit her lip, Rodya anxiously gripped the handle of the knife she’d salvaged from the ground, and even the enigmatic mage and monk seemed to give the young vampire a wide berth.

It took only a second for Flandre to clear the handful of meters separating the two. It only took another second for her blade to come crashing down with a calamitous explosion. To the collected group of weary travelers, it appeared as though a scarlet mist has swept across the courtyard in the blink of an eye before a meteor obliterated what little remained of the surrounding area. It was a charitable description to call what remained in the wake of the girl’s swing rubble, the very stone and earth several meters wide and deep essentially atomized from the impact.

Yet it was bit a half second slow enough for Anje to slip out of its range, the vampire leaping back from the impact zone before leaping up, quickly vanishing into the murky skies above. Flandre grinned and flourished her blade as a set of wings unfolded from her back, a black, spindly membrane with a set of multicolored jewels dangling from the frame. Were it not for the girl immediately taking flight with a single flap of the abnormal wings, Rodya would’ve thought they were simply decorative.

Just as soon as the intense duel began, it seemingly ended, with naught but the distant clash of claw and steel high in the heavens to pierce the otherwise stifling quietude. The last remaining Steel Watcher, once holding both Don and Ishmael in the grasp of the Falkenrath lord, now lay motionless in a small hole in the wall, its former captives now sprawled on the ground. The redhead was the first to rise, massaging her aching arms before breaking into a panicked sprint, swooping down and cradling the motionless paladin in her arms.

“Don? Don!” Ishmael cried, shaking the elf so much she might’ve broken her neck in the panic. “Don, come on wake up this isn’t funny.”

“Ish… mael…” Don replied with a belabored cough, splattering blood across her bare chest. “Pray tell, are you unharmed?”

“Dumbass…” Ishmael grumbled, lifting the girl up before smothering her with a hug. The warmth of Don’s pale body pressed against hers, the elf’s trembling fingers tentatively brushing along the still-bleeding wounds of the redhead, almost made her forget the searing pain that threatened to fully paralyze the girl. Almost.

Still locked in their embrace, Ishmael could do little more than glare defiantly at the mysterious monk and wizard as they approached the two. Instinctively, she pulled Don back, shielding Don with her own body even though, with her armor stripped away and the skin of her back split open, it would take little more than a poke from the quizzical monk to break her spine, let alone pry her from Don’s grip.

And quizzical was the only way to describe Meiling’s expression as she glanced over to the wizard, then back to the quivering duo collapsed on the ground. She blinked twice before rubbing the back of her head, confusion evident in her frown. “Erm… Lady Patchouli. Is this, uh, supposed to be that one vampire that Lady Remilia mentioned?”

The violet-haired wizard’s gaze burrowed into the two girls as though she was dissecting them. “Yes, you can tell that her blood is quite different from the rest of the Falkenrath spawn. Her aura, too, is quite different. Normally, Falkenrath spawn are more unhinged, bloodthirsty, but this elf here is more akin to Remilia. More refined.”

“Is that so?” Meiling crossed her arms, sighing in disappointment. “Well, either Flandre chases Lady Anje off or returns with her head, so what do we do in the meantime?”

“I imagine the Falkenrath clan likely scattered when we made our presence known,” Patchouli said, strolling over to Ishmael and Don. “The castle should be deserted, although the fairies can ensure that there aren’t any stragglers. As for the last remaining loose end.”

The wizard held her hand out, a searing, blazing aura coalescing in her opened palm. Ishmael’s eyes widened as she pulled herself tightly over Don, bracing herself for whatever fiery spell would likely try to incinerate the two of them. Her senses grew numb save for Don’s warm breath against her face, her body giving way to her inevitable fate. Even if her entire body would turn to ash, maybe if she covered the weakened Don Quixote enough, the girl would be able to live long enough for their companions to-

“Woah, woah woah woah!” Meiling swept between the two, smothering Patchouli’s spell with her hand. “C’mon, Patchouli. They’re barely conscious. And they basically did half the work for us. Doncha think that’s a little… extreme?”

Patchouli shot an icy glare toward Meiling as she pulled her hand away, now folding her own arms in irritation. “Meiling, you remember what Lady Remilia said. She wanted both of the potential vampiric lords taken care of. We just expected them to kill each other. The fact that they’re both still breathing was an unexpected conclusion to this little scheme.”

The monk shook her head, matching the wizard’s glare with her own fiery gaze. “And? What’s the harm in cutting these guys a break? They beat up a bunch of bad guys and ended up even sticking around to get some of the credit from it. Surely Lady Remilia will reconsider if she sees them alive.”

“The only thing this will do is try Lady Remilia’s patience,” Patchouli sighed, stifling a groan as a series of footsteps began to close in on the group. A tense Rodya and Yi Sang hurriedly surrounded the duo’s flank while, off to the side, a weary Rebecca watched from atop a pile of rubble, carrying a barely conscious Nino on her back. The violet-haired wizard flicked several strands of stray hair from her face as she acknowledged the new arrivals, annoyance etched all over her face. “And now we have to deal with her retainers as well. If the barbarian wakes up, it’ll be quite an unnecessary nuisance.”

“Well, maybe if we talked it out for a bit,” Meiling snarked, causing a blood vessel to pop in the irritated wizard’s forehead.

“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time showing off we could have wrapped up everything here and already been on our way,” Patchouli retorted, the air around her sizzling as mana emanated from the seething wizard like steam.

“Enough, both of you.”

A third voice, barely louder than Patchouli’s but easily thrice as stern, cut in, a sharp and commandeering bark that silenced the two’s quarrel. Descending from some then unseen perch, the defacto leader of the mysterious new group shoved herself between the monk and the wizard, her very presence an overwhelming tidal wave that swallowed the budding wildfire between them whole. Patchouli sighed and stepped away, her eyes turning to a small, dusty tome in her hand, while Meiling nervously rubbed the back of her head. Despite being fairly taller than the silver-haired rogue, and her bloodied, mud-stained robes far more of an intimidating presence than the pristine maid outfit adorning the newcomer, Meiling seemed far, far smaller before her.

“U-Um… Lady Sakuya,” Meiling stammered, her sheepish and flustered voice much unlike the stalwart and invincible monk that had only minutes before torn the entirety of the Falkenrath golem guard asunder. “Forgive me for saying, but like you know it doesn’t make any sense for us to just go and off this girl, right?”

“Lady Remilia was quite clear, if memory serves,” Sakuya replied curtly, forcing her way past Meiling and to the still-covering duo of Ishmael and Don Quixote. Every muscle in Ishmael’s body that wasn’t already burnt out from pain and exertion screamed at her to flee, the icy atmosphere that followed the rogue short of being truly demonic, yet her legs were numb and her mouth dry. Before Sakuya, she felt lesser than a lizard before a dragon, lesser than an ant before a falling boot. Sakuya tilted her head in wonder before continuing. “Remilia wished to bring Stensia under Scarlet influence. This not only includes ousting the Falkenraths from the seat of their makeshift empire but ensuring that no loose ends should threaten our consolidation of power. The Quixote girl represents such a threat.”

“Come on, Lady Sakuya,” the monk whined, frantically gesturing to the limp, half-conscious elf in Ishmael’s arms. “This girl? Hell, I can sense some traces of angelic magic still present on her skin. I don’t think a paladin like her has any aspirations of taking over some territory for herself, and she’s in no condition to even try and conspire against us like that.”

“It is exactly that type of lax demeanor that brought the Falkenraths to this state,” Sakuya scoffed. Silver flashed in Ishmael’s peripheral vision and the girl winced, clutching Don tight as the silhouette of a dagger came into focus. The rogue took one step, two, three, then paused, pensively rubbing her lower lip. “… But admittedly, Lady Remilia’s plans envisioned this girl and her friends being quite deceased by the time we made our move. This was not something that I’d accounted for.”

“Shall we wait for Lady Remilia to arrive before we dispose of her?” Patchouli asked with a yawn, already bored with the discussion as her attention shifted to the book in her hands. “We could always just lock the Quixote vampire and her retainers away in the dungeon and execute them later.”

Sakuya shrugged, the dagger poised above Ishmael’s body returning to one of the many bandoliers slung across the rogue’s chest. “That seems acceptable. Lady Patchouli, can you send word to Lady Remilia?”

And, as casually as one would order tea, the wizard and the rogue turned their attention away from Ishmael and Don, the rogue already lost in quiet murmurs as she appeared to meticulously take count of the many constructs whose shredded, seared plates now littered the ground like confetti from their explosive afterparty. Off to the side, Rodya’s face scrunched with concern, the lackadaisical nature of their future imprisonment and execution leaving her speechless as her mind tried to process the absurdity of it all. Her mouth opened and closed, inwardly racing through and discarding several quips, threats, and pleas in the span that a bored goblin would take a piss, before she finally turned to Yi Sang in exasperation. “Sangie, can’t you, like, throw a fireball at them or something?”

The wizard signed in consternation, the lunacy of Rodya’s request still miniscule compared to the bizarre but nonetheless dismal predicament they had once again found themselves dropped into. His fingers glowed a bright orange as a flame roared to life in his two palms, a small but potent explosive that he sent screaming at their saviors-turned-captors with a flick of his wrists. The yawning Patchouli barely had time to behold the arcane artillery as it closed in on her in but a single second, her pale skin illuminated a pure amber as the spell crackled and violently shattered.

Shattered like glass, in fact, like some type of ornate bauble, reduced to thick wisps as the violet-haired wizard dispelled Yi Sang’s futile attempt at a preemptive strike with a quick flick of her wrist. The auburn remnants swirled and cascaded around Patchouli, guided by her free hand as she lazily coalesced the stray fragments of mana into a single, violet sphere, and sent it back to the pair. Though Rodya stood in stupefied silence, Yi Sang’s eyes widened as the commandeered spell hurtled back to its owner with a violent boom.

“Rodya!” he yelled, grabbing the brunette’s sleeve and pulling down. “It’s-“

The powerful shockwave that tore free from the sphere’s confines silenced the rest of Yi Sang’s plea, deafening the courtyard with a bang before an air of quietude settled once again. Ishmael’s vision blurred as the blast detonated next to them, and her eyes blinked away the swimming colors only to be met with a billowing plume of smoke and the motionless bodies of her two companions, sprawled along the ground amidst a pluming dust cloud and several bits of rubble.

Ishmael’s mind went blank, and she wasn’t quite sure if she was still gripping onto Don to protect her or as some protective safety blanket to safeguard her drastically fraying sanity. Patchouli’s attention had already returned to her book long before the dust settled, the entire endeavor little more than swatting a pesky fly buzzing in her ear.

“No!” a strident cry broke Ishmael’s stupor. She strained her neck and squinted, barely able to make out the panicked Rebecca still cradling on her back, the once half-conscious girl now wide awake as her mouth was agape with wordless horror. Rebecca nocked an arrow in her bow, a familiar set of glyphs blossoming from the arrowtip as Nino arm rose, enveloped in a sapphiric light. The air crackled, saturated with mana, as Rebecca leveled their volley toward the still distracted Patchouli. “Damn scoundrels! I’ll-“

And for but the briefest second, Ishmael felt her stomach twist in on herself. A wave of nausea briefly enveloped her, as though the world around her casually folded in and compressed before suddenly returning to normal. Bile briefly lapped against her tongue as she gagged and swallowed, her eyes refocusing on the now motionless duo of archer and mage, joined by a third. Her already empty mind struggled to comprehend the scene, the enigmatic Sakuya now suddenly in front of the two, her fist driven directly into Rebecca’s stomach. As the maid stepped back, Rebecca collapsed to the ground, an equally unconscious Nino tumbling off her back and into the debris next to her.

One thought finally bubbled to the surface of Ishmael’s bleached mind. This commission had gone far above their pay grade.

“Yep, that’s Sakuya, alright,” Meiling said with a yawn and a shrug, looking back at Ishmael and Don with a cheeky smile. “Well, look uh, I don’t really wanna, like, knock you out and stuff. It’d be a pain for me and it’d definitely be a pain for you so…” She flashed a thumbs-up, her eyes sparkling like stars. “Can you two agree to come quietly for us? Pretty please?”

The two nodded.

“Great!” The monk knelt and ruffled their hair, a wholesome smile spread wide across her face. “Don’t worry. Lady Remilia’s actually pretty cool when you get to know her! I’m sure she’ll work things out and we can all walk away from this with a good ‘ol laugh.”

A pained grimace flashed across her face, perhaps on instinct, that she very much failed to hide from Ishmael’s fearful eyes. “… Maybe.”

The redhead nodded again, defensively pulling Don in. At some point amidst the confusion, the last of the elf’s vitality had finally been shorn away, leaving her unconscious body slumped against her. For better or worse, this was the situation they found themselves in. They’d just have to gamble that the sickly girl that had stumbled into their abode was, in fact, some magnanimous benefactor and not simply another slice from the proverbial Anje pie.

Ishmael bit her lip. She fucking hated gambling.

As Faust began scribbling in her notebook, an awkward silence permeated the bus, the jovial chatter and hushed whispers shared between the group absent to the point where Heathcliff’s fingers impatiently drumming against the table’s surface may as well have been an avalanche of Sweepers beating down their door. Ishmael’s eyes flicked from an increasingly irate Heathcliff to a somber Rodya and Yi Sang to a pensive Don Quixote, the blonde Sinner’s chipper and carefree demeanor soured as she listlessly glanced between her character sheet and the overly elaborate tabletop set of Castle Falkenrath, the various game pieces representing their characters knocked over as Faust’s own towered over them like gallant heroes swooping in to save the day.

Or as menacing heralds come to kneecap the adventurers in their travels.

Ishmael’s hand nonchalantly slid up and down her opposite arm, waiting for one of the others to speak up even as Faust’s penstrokes soon overtook their breathing. She, of course, had plenty she wanted to ask, but as the one who had apparently suffered the least at the end of this confounding debacle, she felt unqualified to speak up. Or, rather, that’s what she kept telling herself, expecting Heathcliff or Rodya with their rather boisterous outbursts to handle what she otherwise felt too awkward to pursue. Yet still not a single one of the group deigned to be the first to deal with Faust’s reactions… or even to look her in the eye. Her ankles crossed, uncrossed, and crossed again, her toes lightly tapping against the bus’s floor, and as the silence persisted, she finally broke the overbearing silence with a soft cough.

Faust looked up from above her DM screen, meeting Ishmael’s embarrassed stare. “Um, Faust?” she asked. Already she could see the white-haired Sinner’s eyes light up with a defensive posture more reserved for combating some unholy combination of Bongy riding the Shock Centipede. “So, now what…?

Faust cocked an eyebrow as though Ishmael had just asked the dumbest question in the world. “What do you mean?” she replied simply, “you and the others are taken captive unless you want to try something as well.”

“I mean… no, no I think I’m fine,” Ishmael replied, glancing down at her character sheet in frustration. Hanging on off of 2 hit points, with several broken ribs, no weapon, and various lacerations inflicting a debilitating debuff to her overall constitution, her character was in no condition to retaliate or even bargain. Her eyes flew to Rodya and Yi Sang, their characters’ hit points summarily reduced to zero after a Counterspell morphed into a modified Thunderwave that, as Faust helpful described, just barely avoided breaking their necks as opposed to knocking them unconscious. Yi Sang kept his eyes locked to the floor, his dour expression like if had just walked in on Dongrang and Dongbaek fucking. Rodya’s empty stare as she surveyed the table failed to help matters, the excitement long since wrung out of her. Don, opposite her, was not much better, the diminutive Sinner scratching her head in wonder as her golden eyes occasionally flashed red with irritation.

And of course.

“Bloody hell, what do you want us to even do?” Heathcliff snarled, banging his fist onto the table. The painstakingly assembled pop-ups composing the daunting fortress all fell over, as did the rest of the figures, as an aggravated Heathcliff continued. “Lass, you just spent the last ten or so minutes tossing us about before declaring victory with these new characters of yours. I didn’t even get a chance to do anything!”

“You did rush forward without thinking and give the enemy no reason not to immediately incapacitate you,” Faust retorted, playfully fiddling with a Steel Watcher figure between her forefinger and middle finger. “We have criticized your inability to think ahead several times before.”

“Y’know, Fau,” Rodya chimed in, lazily resting the side of her head in her palm as she propped her arm up against the table. “Heath’s usually the one blowing hot air during these sessions but I think he’s got a point. This felt a bit… I dunno, a bit like we just got led around this time?”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Faust replied curtly. A noticeable, icy sharpness in her voice caused Rodya to flinch as Faust’s stare pinned her down. “Faust clearly outlined for your group several possibilities to proceed. It is not my fault that Don Quixote chose to intervene so brutishly.”

“… I mean I said I was sorry,” Don muttered under her breath, the defeated resignation sending a chill up Ishmael’s spine. She instinctively reached out and patted the girl on the head, forcing a smile on her face.

“D-Don’t worry about it, Don,” Ishmael replied hastily, “it’s not that big a deal. And, like, that fight that happened after was pretty fun. And you looked pretty badass too.” As her fingers ran through Don’s hair, Ishmael matched Faust’s glare with her own, mouthing no less than four expletives unique to U Corp. Sure, Don was prone to rash acts of impulsive, if not downright suicidal heroism, but after a while the charming naivete of their would-be savior added an endearing flair to their campaigns, one that even managed to win over the typically critical Outis and the short-tempered Heathcliff. Faust, too, knew quite well that if Don was presented with an opportunity to intervene and protect the innocent civilians, she would jump on that opportunity no matter the situation.

Which, as the redhead wryly thought, made it particularly interesting that Faust would take Don’s tendency to leapfrog into danger to spring an encounter quite a few levels beyond what they could comfortably handle on them. Without much warning, even.

“Faust simply had some ideas she wanted to experiment with for this session,” Faust replied nonchalantly, turning her attention to her notes. “Faust believes this game was a rather interesting one.”

“Yeah, because you got to wank off to yourself for half the game,” Heathcliff grumbled under his breath.

A flash of anger momentarily crossed Faust’s face, not long enough for the lazing Heathcliff or the apologetic Don to notice but long enough for Ishmael to steal a glance at Faust’s wounded pride under her ordinarily emotionless gaze. Ishmael’s eyes flicked over to Rodya, the Sinner’s face half-buried in her character sheet. With a nod, Rodya yawned and rose from her chair, startling Faust out of her engrossed notetaking. “Anyway, I’m beat guys. We’re calling it here, right?”

Faust bit her lip, glancing over at the tokens strewn about the half-disassembled board and the ponderous Sinners seated across from her. “Do the rest of you have anything you would like to do?”

Silence was the response to what could very charitably be called a blitheringly obvious question. Faust returned to her notes, waving off any disappointment she may have had with a shrug. “Fine, then. Faust will clean up. The rest of you can go.”

Rodya’s seat was already vacant, the brunette already vanishing into the winding hallways of Mephistopheles’s backdoor. Yi Sang began returning his files to a small binder in his lap while Don timidly plucked her figure up from the table, turning it over and over again in her fingers. She jumped only slightly as Ishmael’s hand tapped her on the shoulder, fumbling the figure about in her hands before catching hold of it before its skull was cracked against the table. “I-Ishmael!” she whined, her face lit up a bright red. “Okay, so I know that I-“

“I’m not upset about what happened, Don,” Ishmael cut her off, pressing a finger to her lips. She leaned in close, her fingers just a few centimeters off from the blonde’s ear. “… Keep this quiet, alright?”

“… Huh?”

“Like I said,” Ishmael harshly whispered. “Rodya and I cooked up a little thing while Faust was in the middle of assembling the castle…”

Chapter Text

“Miss Faust. A word, if you will.”

The white-haired Sinner paused, her trembling hand tucked halfway under her binder. She’d grown too accustomed to the silent halls of Mephistopheles to accompany her after every session, left to little more but the rhythmic sounds of her muted breathing. She glanced up from the makeshift table, her curious gaze meeting Yi Sang’s. His fingers nervously drummed against each other as he leaned against one of the bus’s many chairs, the Sinner licking his lips as his face scrunched up, feverishly searching for the question he’d been so ready to ask her.

“Yes, Yi Sang?” Faust asked, placing her jumbled stack of notes and binders back down on the table. “It’s not like you to linger after our sessions. Was something the matter?”

“N-No, nothing like that, Miss Faust,” Yi Sang said quickly. Faust squinted, noticing a faint shade of red tinting Yi Sang’s otherwise pale cheeks. “I just wished to express my thanks for tonight’s game. Your storytelling was, as always, exemplary and spectacular.”

Faust coughed, her eyes darting away. It was uncertain whether she was aware of her own cheeks flushing red as she masked her frazzled smile with her palm, reaching down as she feigned interest in the notes scattered about the table. “Of course, Yi Sang. Faust prides herself in providing such perfect experiences when the Sinners are provided an opportunity to rest.”

“And it is always my pleasure to bear witness to your performances, Miss Faust.”

Faust’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, her fingers pressing hard into her scribbled notes until the paper began to crumple and the ink crease. A relieving impassivity usually accompanied every word and every action, the all-knowing Gesellschaft often providing enough guidance that she could simply tune out the white noise that often spewed from her co-workers’ mouths. Yet, much as she posed the hypothetical to the Gesellschaft every now and again, her myriad selves would fail to provide her a satisfactory answer. Some expressed interest, others feigned so when she spoke of the curious co-worker of Limbus Company Bus that would occasionally cause her chest to tighten. At first she likened it to a coincidence, then perhaps to some medical anomaly or allergen tied to the Sinner. Yet she admittedly was not stupid; she knew exactly what was affecting her so.

Yet even then, her newfound feelings for Yi Sang could not stop Faust’s icy glare from returning, impaling the Sinner where he stood. “What is this, Yi Sang?” she asked pointedly, crossing her arms and impatiently tapping her foot. “Faust notes you are often one of the first to leave our sessions and seldom do you consult my opinion outside of our excursions.”

The Sinner flinched, clearly caught aback by Faust’s sharp observation. “I-I mean…”

“It’s alright, Yi Sang. She was going to pick up on it at some point.”

Faust sighed, her gaze drawn to the perpetually prickly Ishmael that crept out of her little alcove nestled between Mephistopheles’s seating. In a surprising show of tact, Heathcliff and Don Quixote followed closely behind, both showing a great dealt of restraint for those the Fausts often labeled as “short-sighted” or “brash” or “overly impulsive.” Her eyes swept across the four Sinners as she knelt down to retrieve her binder, the feelings bubbling in her chest already a fleeting memory. “It’s quite unlike all of you to stick around after we wrap up a session. Faust, of course, knows that her skills are immaculate and her campaigns without compare, but Faust welcomes any additional praise you may have.”

“Uh-huh,” Ishmael snorted, snagging the end of Faust’s binder between her two fingers. “About that, Faust. You had some… particularly vivid descriptions this session.”

The white-haired girl tilted her head quizzically, unsure how to respond to such an obvious observation. “… Yes, Ishmael. It is the job of a DM like myself to carefully and meticulously set the scene so that the other members of our group can fully engross and immerse themselves in the game.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Ishmael interjected. Her thumb slid firmly underneath the binder while her index finger wormed its way into the binder, as if fishing for a page or two. “It’s just that the setpieces you had in mind were… rather interesting.”

“Interesting?” Faust pursed her lips, a faint tingling in the back of her head. She tugged at her binder to no avail; despite the lackadaisical appearance of Ishmael’s wandering fingers, they may as well have been a vicegrip befitting of U Corp’s trash crabs. “… How so, Ishmael?”

“Oh, you know.” Ishmael cleared her throat, her green eyes growing dull as she adopted a familiar, pedantic countenance. “You find yourself groggy as you wearily awake from unconsciousness. The chilly, musky air of the dungeon causes goosebumps to form across your bare arms and legs. As you try to get a hold of your bearings, you notice a piercing ache in your jaw, and as you moan, you become aware of the ball gag firmly lodged between your teeth. You shuffle and thrash about as your hazy mind becomes clear, taking note of the cuffs secured around your wrists and ankles, a short loop of chain forcing you in a painful crouch. A blindfold wound around your head kept you awash in darkness, yet as your thighs brushed together and your arms pressed against your sides, you could tell that your captors spared no expense in ensuring that you were stripped down completely to safeguard against any escape attempts.”

“I fail to see the problem with this description,” Faust said sharply, trying – and failing – once again to pull her binder free from Ishmael. “The party is fully outfitted with magical equipment; it would be logical to deprive them of these tools should they contain some enchantment that would allow them to escape from captivity.”

“Lass, you don’t think it’s weird or anything that you stripped us near naked and tied us up the second you got the opportunity?” Heathcliff cut in, cutting past the pretenses Ishmael was still trying to work out in her head.

“I-I don’t quite know what you’re trying to imply here,” Faust replied, a faint stammer amidst her otherwise monotonous stoicism. Ishmael smirked, putting up no resistance as Faust finally freed her binder from her grip. The Sinner hurriedly backed away, pressing her notes and books against her chest protectively to shield their content from their prying eyes. Following her step by step, Don bit her lip, her facing scrunching up as the normally jovial blonde struggled to find her voice.

“L-Lady Faust,” she began, anxiously scratching the back of her head. “Perchance, were you… taking great pleasure devising today’s adventure?”

It likely took the last bit of Faust’s innate restraint to keep her fingers from completely punching through her notes from the sudden jolt. The girl’s face twisted in an uncharacteristic – and rather comedic – display of embarrassment, completely washing away the ordinarily smug composure of Limbus Company’s stoic know-it-all. Her pale skin flushing a deep crimson that made Don’s blood red eyes look positively dull, Faust averted her gaze, hurriedly shuffling to the side in an attempt to reach Mephistopheles’s back doors.

On cue, Ishmael stepped to the side, barring her way with a raised arm. Faust huffed, her body arcing back and forth in an attempt to squeeze past the redhead. “Ishmael,” she said curtly, her voice dripping with venom. “If you would, Faust would like to retire to her room.”

“Not like you to be so quiet, Faust,” Ishmael observed, a knowing smirk spreading across her face. “We touch a nerve back there?”

“Y-You!” Faust’s shoulders stiffened, her feet spreading apart as she clearly prepared to simply force her way past the redhead. “I’m quite exhausted, Ishmael. Please get out of my way. Now.”

“No need to get all riled up there, lass,” Heathcliff chimed in, leaning over Ishmael’s shoulder with a similarly infuriating grin. “We got tomorrow off anyhow so you can unwind a bit. I’m sure you’ve got ideas.”

“I-I mean…” Faust shook her head, hurriedly – and rather unconvincingly – throwing on her typical expressionless pokerface. “Faust has no interest in partaking in any additional frivolries tonight. Faust will retire to her room until tommmmmmp-!”

So engrossed in her frantic attempts to hide her embarrassment, Faust failed to notice the creeping set of footsteps behind her, nor catch the subtle, excitable giggles from the two Sinners barring her path. Only when she felt a gag slide between her teeth mid-sentence did she finally notice Ishmael’s and Heathcliff’s barely contained laughter. Her arms shot up, instinctively reaching for the black straps pressed against her cheeks, only for an arm to catch both of her wrists and pull them down and behind her back.

“Gotcha, Fau~,” Rodya said with a giggle. She effortlessly held the thrashing Sinner down with one hand, her other sliding the straps of the ball gag through its buckle until it clicked shut. A panic seldom seen by the white-haired girl gripped her eyes as she tugged against Rodya’s goliath strength to no avail, appearing to the other giggling Sinners like a frantic squirrel unknowingly trapped in the embrace of a destructive toddler. The faint click of steel echoed down Mephostopheles’s halls and Faust winced as Rodya yanked her arms up, pressing her palms together into a reverse prayer before clicking the handcuffs shut around her wrists.

“Mmmmmph!” Faust snarled through her gag, dousing Rodya in spittle as she wheeled around and tried to slam her head into Rodya’s. “Grmmmph mmmp… mmmmmfffff?”

Whatever tirade Faust was about to unload into the smirking Rodya, it was lost amidst the red rubber snugly wedged between her teeth. Her trembling gaze settled on a small, innocuous bag hanging from Rodya’s fingertips, a plain brown deprived of any embellishments or trimmings. Even the Limbus Company logo, ordinarily plastered somewhere on the many, many standard-issue equipment the company dumped onto them, was absent, making the bag seem almost freakishly normal. Perhaps the shock caused Faust to put up little resistance as Ishmael’s hands latched onto her forearm and pushed the Sinner down into one of the chairs, or maybe the mistiness clouding Faust’s eyes was an almost indiscernible sign of her abject and total resignation.

“So ol Ishy thought something felt a bit off,” Rodya teased, drinking in the despair of the ordinarily stoic Faust like it was a fine, aged wine. “Soooooo we agreed that I go take a bit of a peek into your room while she and Yi Sang kept you busy.”

Faust flinched, her eyes flicking over to the somber Yi Sang. His face red with embarrassment, he sank behind one of the chairs, tactfully avoiding the piercing stare of the Sinner. Disappointment and frustration were a common expression for the white-haired girl as she often dealt with the inadequacies of her co-workers, but Yi Sang seemed particularly averse to the sense of seething betrayal that emanated from the struggling Faust.

If the other four Sinners were aware of Faust’s death glare, none took any notice of it as Ishmael, Heathcliff, and Don all crowded around the nondescript bag in Rodya’s possession. As Rodya kept Faust firmly planted in her seat, Heathcliff chuckled and Ishmael snorted, the duo shaking their heads in incredulity as the contents contained within the bag’s depths made their… personal uses apparent. Don pursed her lips, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes glossed over as if staring into some miniaturized abyss.

“W-Wait,” Don stammered, her voice absent of the jovial flair emblematic of the blonde Sinner. “These… toys? A-Are these…? I mean… Faust, is this…?”

“Aye, lass,” Heathcliff finished with a smug grin, wrapping his arm around Don’s shoulders. The weirdly calm Heathcliff contrasted sharply with the livid Faust thrashing about in the chair, her pale face now a vibrant shade of red as she tried to bite through the ball gag in her mouth, her legs kicking wildly and her torso twisting about as her hands rattled and tugged against her handcuffs to no avail. Ishmael clicked her tongue, mocking Faust with a faux-pleading pout as she knelt until she was eye level with the white-haired girl.

“What’s wrong, Faust?” Ishmael jeered, sharing Heathcliff’s shit-eating grin. “You look quite embarrassed. Don’t worry, you can relax and have fun. After all, we know you’re quite into this.”

“MMMMMMMMMMMMPH!”

Faust lunged forward, barely inches away from bashing Ishmael’s head in with her own skull. Ishmael merely chuckled and pressed her finger firmly against the gag wedged between Faust’s teeth. Her ordinarily pale face had taken on a striking shade of red, though whether it be from embarrassment or from simmering rage, Ishmael could only guess. The wild thrashing of the restrained Sinner, her disheveled white hair flying in all directions as she tugged and beat against her restraints like a caged lion, could very well have been both the flustered actions of a mortified young woman as she tried desperately to escape the public humiliation playing out before her or the enraged thrashing of a deep, primal rage buried within the girl, spurred to action by the audacity of the four Sinners before her.

Neither thought seemed to phase the redhead as she turned to the others, a pensive frown crossing her face. “… So, what should we do with her, anyway?”

“Funny as it’d probably be to go through this ol’ bag of tricks here,” Heathcliff began, gesturing to the bag still shaking in Don’s trembling hands. “… If Vergilius were to catch wind of the shite we got into here, we’d all be lucky if the worst we got was toilet duty for the next year.”

A bleak, disconcerting silence suddenly fell over the group, the mental image of a poignant pair of piercing, red eyes searing themselves into the back of their heads. Ishmael bashfully scratched the back of her head, worried that mulling over the unchecked, vengeful wrath of their guide would cut her lifespan short a couple of years. “Nnnngh, guess you got me there.” She drummed her fingers together, shuffling through the morass of thoughts in her head, before suddenly perking up. “We could all camp out in one of our rooms, probably… convince Faust here to go along with everything.

She smirked and wrapped her hand around the white-haired girl, pulling her tight with a mocking hug. “After all, Faust, you’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPH!”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Ishmael cheered, her sparkling smile almost repelling the spittle leaking through Faust’s gag or the contempt emanating from her widened eyes. Ishmael wheeled around, still dragging Faust with her like some kind of oversized doll. “So, who’s room are we picking for the night? Not it!”

“Not it!”
“Not it!”
“Nay!”
“N-N-“

The hurried stammering from the beleaguered Sinner #1 quickly died in his throat as the eyes of the group all turned toward him, the pity and relief both paradoxically splashed across the morose Don Quixote easily made up for by the predatory grins of Rodya, Ishmael, and Heathcliff, the three almost encircling the mortified Sinner like crocodiles ready to snap up their next meal. His mouth hung open, both retort and protest desperately trying to claw their way out of their throat, yet dying just at the tip of his tongue as his eyes fruitlessly met each and every one of the expectant Sinners. His head hung low, a resigned sigh pushing itself free from his lips.

“… My abode is welcome to all of you, unideal as it may be.”