by J. Langland
“Well, in my life experience, I tried to get information out of various vampyrs and vampires and had very little luck. Therefore, I always figured that the next time I needed information from one, I should simply cure it; at which point all our normal methods of questioning will work just fine,” Hilda explained.
Rasmeth nodded in agreement. “It is very hard to tell if a vampire is telling a lie.”
Teragdor nodded. “No pulse, no blood pressure, bodies at only room temperature, so they don’t have much to measure.”
“I think it’s a package deal with corpses,” Stevos said, setting his drink down as they all chuckled.
“What about the dhampyr?” Rasmeth asked.
“I do not know. To be honest, I have not really dealt with them that much.” Hilda sighed, sitting down. “They are alive, just tainted with blood lust. Basically half-blood Unlife.”
“I really do not see how that’s possible, and I know something about being of mixed race,” Teragdor said.
“Mortal mother, vampire father impregnates her, but the father does not infect the mother and she is alive through the term,” Stevos said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, but how are vampires able to reproduce if they are dead? I would sort of think things wouldn’t work,” Teragdor said. “If you know what I mean?”
Hilda frowned. “At first I thought you meant his seed, which would be antimus based, I assume, but now that you mention it, they have no blood pressure, so how...?” Hilda shook her head in distaste at the line of thought. “I am sure one the academics in this place can tell you. I really do not want to talk about this at breakfast.” She stared down at her plate of hot sausages and bacon, then reached for a strip of bacon.
Citadel of Light, Dungeon: Early Third Period
Rede Yondin sat on the stone bench in his dark cell, somewhere in the deep bowels of the Citadel of Light. He put his head in his hands and tried to suppress his tears. He was frightened. Actually, he had been frightened for some time. The last ten months had been a living hell, but last night’s events and his current situation were truly dire.
His misery had started when his mother had gotten ill and died. At that point, he had been all on his own; there had been no one else. His half-brother had joined the local militia and been killed the year before; after that, he and his mother had lived a solitary life on a small farm deep in the woods.
They had not been able to live in town once Rede’s true nature had revealed itself around the age of twelve. He had always been a bit pale, but as his dhampyr features manifested, his skin had turned a very unhealthy-looking shade of grey. Like all dhampyrs, he had to ingest blood regularly or his skin would get quite nasty—itchy, dry and tight. On Nysegard, everyone knew what that meant. It was not easy to hide for long in a small walled village.
He, his brother and mother had purchased a small walled farm in the forest with most of the money Rede’s father had given her to raise him. They had a garden for their basic needs, along with a lot of chickens that Rede could feed safely on. Chicken blood wasn’t very nutritious or pleasant, but it kept him alive, if not particularly healthy.
His half-brother’s death had been the first blow, and then his mother’s the final blow. Things had started to spiral downhill at the point. It was difficult for a single person to manage all the tasks on the farm; particularly when the chickens were scared shitless of him. Literally shitless—ever since he had turned, when he came near the chickens they would try to run away while dropping a trail of dung behind them.
So the farm had been suffering from neglect, and Rede from hunger, and then four months ago the Unlife finally overwhelmed the nearby town. The small army that finally felled the town and its militia naturally encountered his farm. The scent of the chickens had drawn them.
The only benefit to his condition, at least as far as Rede was concerned, was that Unlife had no interest in him. The first group to locate his farm had been some ghouls, who had swarmed over his walls to eat his blood supply. He shuddered in remembrance of the disgusting slaughter. As the ghouls were feeding, a ghast had shown up and realized he was a dhampyr.
The ghast had been moderately interested in finding a dhampyr youth living alone on a farm near the village they had just overrun. He had taken Rede to his commander, a vampire. The vampire had asked who his sire was and Rede had told him.
Surprisingly, his father, whom Rede had never met, but whose name his mother had told him, was not only still alive, but actually quite high up in the Storm Lords’ service. Rede had ended up spending about a month as a “guest” of the local vampire commander while word got back to his father.
The stay had been an eye-opener into the ways of his father’s people, so to speak. The experience was horrifying but he had, for the first time since puberty, had a good meal. The blood had been served warm in a leather drinking pouch. He had not asked where it had come from, but spent a very large amount of time worrying about it.
Eventually, Vladimir and his crew had arrived with instructions that Rede had been awarded the rank of corporal and assigned to Vladimir’s unit for training. Vladimir was a two-hundred-year old vampire leftenant, specializing in reconnaissance. His team consisted of his senior sarjeant, Anastasia; one Sarjeant Voldroit; and two other corporals, Anabelle, who had been a vampire for about two years, and Carlton, who’d been turned about six months ago.
For the last three months, he’d been learning how to be both a dhampyr and a soldier. He closed his eyes, trying to forget much of that time. Actually, to be fair, other than being forced to learn how to feed from sentient races, it had been relatively normal. It was just the feeding that horrified him.
He and his mother had always killed the chicken and drained the blood into a bowl for him to drink; he had never actually used his fangs to bite anything. He had simply drunk the blood through his teeth, as if they were straws. Dhampyrs, like vampires (but not vampyrs) had hollow fangs that led to capillaries in the roof of his mouth. He simply made a motion in his throat similar to swallowing to activate suction pulses to draw the blood in.
Since dhampyrs were not infectious, unlike vampires and vampyrs, he actually could drink a victim and not have to either kill or turn them in order to avoid creating a ghoul. He had tried to do that as much as possible, but the vampires—Vladimir in particular—had little patience for that. Eventually, when Rede fed, if he didn’t finish the meal, Vladimir would finish it for him.
Last night, though, had been the most terrifying thing of all. He had been sickened at the thought of Vladimir killing and feeding on the woman and child, and even the soldier, who was not much older than himself. Soldiers died in war, so there was that consolation, but the killing and feeding on the very motherly heavyset woman and the little boy was something he could barely manage to watch, let alone participate in.
However, things did not go as planned. He still shook in awe at the woman’s power. They had somehow encountered an actual, physical saint of Tiernon. Sure, everyone knew the legends of the old days when the saints fought alongside the mortals against the Night; but that was all they were: myths and legends. Rede shook his head in remembered terror. The full power of a god, channeled through its saint, was terrible to behold, at least when you were on the opposing side. He had been certain she would wipe him and the others from the face of Nysegard. Surprisingly, she had not. She had, miraculously, re-turned Vladimir, Anastasia and Voldroit, and in the process nearly incinerated Anabelle and Carlton. He shook his head, remembering their tortured screams.
However, in the end, they too had survived. The saint had somehow healed them enough to re-turn them to human form again. That had left him, for which there was no such thing as a re-turn; he was naturally born with his condition. He had survived, but for how long?
It was not like he had any valuable information to give them. He had not really seen that much in the three months in the woods with Vladimir, and the month before he’d been an isolated guest in the vampire
lord’s castle. He had nothing to offer the people of the Citadel, and he was sure they would not believe his protestations of innocence. Everyone knew that dhampyrs were part of the Night.
He was doomed.
Mount Doom: Early Third Period
Tom opened the door from his bedroom to the sitting area to find Talarius sitting bolt upright in a chair with his sword leaning against the armrest. He was in his full armor—which made sense since the sitting room was not as cool as the knight’s bedroom. The knight had been staring at Tom’s door, apparently waiting on Tom to wake up.
“Hello,” Tom said hesitantly.
“Demon,” Talarius stated. That was not good, Tom thought. He hadn’t used that mode of address for some time. “We have some questions for you.” He gestured to Ruiden beside him.
“Okay,” Tom said, moving to a chair of his size.
Talarius rotated his own chair to continue to face Tom. “First: what do you know of New Jersey?” the knight asked.
Tom did a double take, flabbergasted by the question. How would Talarius know about New Jersey? He slowly shook his head, trying to clear it. “It’s a state in a country called the United States of America, on a world called Earth,” he finally said cautiously.
“A state within a country?” Talarius asked.
“The whole country is a federation of fifty different states,” Tom said, finding it beyond bizarre to be explaining his old country’s nature to a man in a suit of heavy plate armor.
“Second: what is a joint?” Talarius asked. The knight must have been talking to Reggie; no one else would use that word.
“It’s a rolled-up piece of paper with an herb that you smoke, much like a pipe. Have you been talking to Reggie?” Tom asked.
“Third: have you ever been to New Jersey?” the knight asked.
Tom sighed. “So you have obviously been speaking to Reggie.” He shook his head and carefully rubbed the bridge of his nose with his knuckles to avoid poking his eyes out. “What do you want to know? Just come out and ask.”
That seemed to give the knight pause. Finally, he spoke again. “Where were you before Lenamare summoned you?”
“I was at a party in Harding, New Jersey, with Reggie and several other friends who have somehow managed to escape being summoned by a crazy wizard,” Tom said, putting it all on the table. “And yes, I was a human just a few quarter-months back.”
Talarius simply sat there. It was very hard, actually impossible, to judge his expression with his visor closed. Tom was not enjoying this conversation.
“And your age?” the knight finally asked.
“I was sixteen, a few years older than Rupert. I turned seventeen about the time of the oath taking here,” Tom said, slouching in his chair.
“You expect me to believe that an untrained sixteen-year-old boy was turned into a greater demon in some manner similar to the D’Orcing, landed in a strange world and proceeded to foil the plots of his wizard master and group of archdemons, luring both the Rod and Oorstemoth hundreds of leagues to Freehold,” Talarius stated more than asked.
Tom said nothing. What could he say?
“And that this sixteen-year-old, newly arrived greater demon beat me in combat that was rigged in my favor, stole mana from my god, reversed a very powerful artifact and abducted me?” Talarius finished.
“Yes,” Tom said wearily. “We have both been together for everything else, so you do not have to repeat our shared history. I agree to it all.”
Talarius shifted in his seat. It would be nice if I could see his expression, Tom thought. That helmet made conversation quite awkward.
“So explain how a sixteen-year-old who has only been a demon for a few quarter-months has a ten- or twelve-year-old son?” Talarius demanded.
Tom sighed. “That is a mystery to me as well.” He gave the knight a weak grin. “When Lenamare first summoned me, Rupert was a student, an orphaned student at his school. He knew his father was a powerful demon, and for whatever reason, he decided that I was his father come to reclaim him.” He shook his head, shifting uncomfortably. “In the battle with Oorstemoth, on the ship, he was badly wounded—we thought dead. However, I took him to my quarters where he regenerated into his demon form for the first time, and he looked like a small version of me. He told me his story about being an orphaned half-demon and how happy he was that I, his father, had come for him.”
Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose. “By that point we were so close, and he’d just been through so much, and he was so very happy, that I didn’t want to—couldn’t break his heart. My plan was to give him some time, distance from his pain, and eventually explain things to him.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then reopened them. “But, unfortunately, the longer a lie goes on, the harder it is to break it. I just keep putting off the discussion I do not want to have.”
Talarius shook his helmeted head, and was silent for some time before finally speaking. “Am I to believe all of this?” he asked wearily.
“Talarius, if I were the super-manipulative demon prince that you think I am, and I were lying to you, would I make up something so insanely unbelievable?”
“Be quiet!” Talarius suddenly shouted, staring down at his sword. Apparently the two could communicate telepathically. He turned back to face Tom, and then rose from his chair. “I am going to get some fresh air, clear my thoughts.” The knight turned on his heel and proceeded to leave the suite.
Tom hadn’t even made it out of his suite yet this morning, and already it felt like a very long day.
Astlan, Stone Finger Camp: Third Period
“Do you think we will we hear back from the alvar today?” Tal Gor asked those assembled in Elgrida’s tent to break their night’s fast.
Lob Smasher and Elrgida both shrugged.
Zargvarst seemed to muse for a few moments. “If so, then it will be later in the day. He will want to verify that we are alerting people outside of our territories. After that, they will engage in endless rounds of discussion along with tedious amounts of indecisive whining. Normally, I could state as a fact that we would not; however, these alvar have been moving very quickly. Far quicker than they normally would.”
“Word should be getting out,” Tal Gor said. He gestured to Ferroos, the Stone Finger shaman. “We dream conferenced with the Shamanic Council at Mount Orc; they have all the details of the battle, the results and the discussions surrounding the prisoners. including Zargvarst’s promise.”
“They were very pleased, I might add,” Ferroos said, nodding.
“Indeed, the cheering was quite boisterous.” Tal Gor grinned at Zargvarst. “They will be relaying it out to all the tribes, as well as those in Murgandy, the Federation and Ferundy.”
“And to Jotungard as well, of course.” Ferroos nodded.
“Excellent,” Egrida said.
Lob Smasher nodded. “Of course, should they accept the deal, we have no way of verifying it,” he said.
“The Grove has set itself up as interlocutor; perhaps we hold them responsible for verification?” Zargvarst suggested.
“They do seem to like interlocution and getting in the middle of everyone else’s affairs,” Elgrida said. “Out of respect for their current usefulness, I will not use the word that perhaps best describes their function.”
Zargvarst chuckled. “Yes, no sense in insulting them to their faces, or now behind their backs, at this point.”
Tal Gor shook his head. “I get the impression that, for some incomprehensible reason, they do not find such words insulting.”
Lob Smasher grinned. “In truth, and while they may not find the words insulting, they would know that should we say the words, we could only do so as insults.”
Nimbus: Nineses
“So when will Prince Ariel get back to you?” Maelen asked Trevin as she gently blew over her extremely hot tea.
“I have no good idea.” Trevin shook her head. “He was extremely frustrated, more so than I believe I have ever seen him.”
>
“Frustrated? That is not an emotion I would expect from an alfar,” Elrose said.
Trevin took a sip of her tea, smiling, then tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “True, yet, nor would I expect an orc, or in this case, I suppose, a D’Orc, to get the better of an alvaran prince at the negotiating table.”
“So did he know this Zargvarst?” Gastropé asked.
“Given Aeriel’s very brief tightening of his brow, right between his eyebrows, the slight narrowing of the eyelids and the mildly flaring nostrils?” Trevin nodded. “I suspect so.” She chuckled.
“You actually seem to be enjoying this,” Jenn said to the enchantress.
“Prince Ariel is a friend and colleague of mine, yet he can be a bit hot-headed, impetuous and downright imperious, even for an alfar,” Trevin said. “He overstepped the boundaries that he himself negotiated through the Grove with the orcs.” She shrugged. “For once, the orcs have the upper hand. They do not get that very often.”
“You sound rather pro-orc,” Jenn said, puzzled.
“I am neutral; that’s the entire point of the Grove,” Trevin stated. “I try to stay above the fray, so to speak. Of course there are exceptions—those who do not wish to play by the rules the rest of us have agreed to. In those instances, I am less neutral. Neutrality does not mean passivity.”
“You mean like the Storm Lords?” Gastropé asked.
“And, at certain points in time, Oorstemoth, as well as others.” Trevin nodded.
“But the orcs play by the rules?” Jenn asked skeptically.
“By their interpretation of the rules. Yes, they are very honorable in their own way, even as are the alvar. However, misunderstandings arise, tempers flare and wars happen. The Grove seeks to prevent such things from happening—at least, between the various races, and the worlds upon which we operate. We stay out of a race’s internal affairs.”
“What about this demon lord? Orcus?” Jenn asked.
