A Journey of Black and Red

I slap Octave’s blade aside before it can bury itself in my breast, counter-attacking immediately. Our swords clink against each other, whistling through the air. We step back and forth and to the side in a lethal dance. I am fully absorbed in the fight with the help of the Cadiz essence and manage to reach a state of perfect calm and focus where my arms move faster than I can think. Instinct, experience, intuition, all guide me through a fight I cannot truly win. Right now, it does not matter. Octave leaves me an opening and I take it. A flick of my wrist, and Rose extends enough to slam against his massive chest protector.

“Good! Good. Better. You are less afraid of short range.”

“If only those I faced in short range were not all stronger than me…” I grumble. Torran, Jarek, even Malakim, they all favor close quarter combat. The only way to win against them is to deny it.

“They are only stronger because they practice more. Rose is a whipsword, not a swordwhip, is it?”

I frown. That makes no sense?

“What do you mean?”

“Just a jest,” he says. “My point still stands. You need to be comfortable at every range or your more capable foes will notice your reluctance. Your style is very aggressive. You cannot overwhelm your foe if they can just get into your face and win. Your advantage over a spear user is that they always have to mind keeping their enemy at bay while you are much more flexible. Flexibility leads to the unpredictability that you cultivate with so much gusto. Again.”

I charge him before the second syllable is out and get a smile as an answer. The dance resumes. Octave is purposefully lowering his skills in a way that only a true master could. He gives me openings and makes mistakes that only someone a little less competent than him would do. I have to work very hard to corner him, overwhelm him with a series of movements that leave him with no choice but to take a hit. Feints and changing attacks are key. Using more strength in specific strikes thanks to the Natalis essence helps as well. After two hours, we are done and the time comes for the last leg of the exercise.

The full experience.

With the exception of my armor, which I am to discard in favor of the traditional lamellar gambeson, I am using all of my gear and facing off against Octave for his own amusement. He delights in facing off against my guns specifically, and I have worked hard to integrate them in a style designed to take him down as a result. I had to reinforce the trigger mechanism to fire faster, train to shoot twice almost instantly while drawing, and empty the whole barrel in an instant. He faces me only with his shirt and heart protector while insisting that I use my own bullets. I have run out of bullets. I had to make more bullets. The workshop master only calls me the ‘boom girl’ now, when the apprentices are not here.

I dodge a strike by leaping back.

“Flay.”

The spell surges and even alters course to strike at Octave, but he moves with impossible grace, in strange sequences that would make me blink if it was the first time. His footwork is out of this world.

I draw and fire but he merely continues moving in those strange patterns without stopping, having once more anticipated my strategy. Our dance continues. Sometimes, I manage to nick him by shooting randomly in small clusters but it does not happen every session. I think he will grow bored of it after a while.

With this, our session ends and we bow to each other. I clean up quickly while Octave welcomes another student, this one a full Knight. I hurry to the library feeling very much like a young student hurrying to class. The stone-faced librarian welcomes me. He is an old Dvor Master who had chosen the library as his domain, an extremely strange decision that I did not dare investigate too closely.

“Welcome back, Squire Ariane.”

His name is Drakla and he is almost bald, with a white face and deep-set eyes that never blink. With a gesture, he invites me to a secluded alcove that contains a series of books piled carefully. I sit down and notice thin markers at specific spots.

“I have been considering your project. I also saw you cast and practice magic. I have come to several conclusions.”

He speaks slowly and meticulously as if words were precious.

“You have little skill for magic. Your only decent affinity is centered around… information.”

“Information?”

“Yes. Analyzing it with your intuition. Denying it with darkness. As such, I have compiled a series of spells that will be useful to you, split in two categories. There are a few spells that relate to blood magic and, though difficult to master, will fill an important role in your arsenal. The second category contains spells designed around information gathering, information denial and deception. Although usually not worth the effort, I believe that they will be interesting assets and tools in your hands.”

“Deception you said?”

Drakla grabs a dusty old tome and opens it, showing me a strangely organic glyph, at the very limit of what a traditional gauntlet could achieve. The work on it is heterodox while remaining anchored in the ‘western standard’ magic system.

“This spell is called mirage. It will allow you to show an illusory set of movement as well as the one you are actually performing. An enhanced version exists that can mask your current position, rendering the spell even deadlier in the hands of an accomplished duelist, which I was informed you were. The strong point of this spell is that it emits light rather than acting on your target’s mind directly.”

“Meaning that people will not be able to defend against it.”

“Exactly. The spell is so fast that even a vampire could not dispel it before it has finished running its course. There are conditions beyond casting, of course. You need to visualize the feint you wish to make in the midst of battle. It will require great focus. On the other hand, my understanding is that it is not a taxing spell to use, therefore, you can use it in quick succession to overwhelm your foe.”

Between this, my unpredictability and Nami’s hypnotic movement techniques, I will be able to throw off even the most battle-hardened veterans!

“Even Octave will be unable to escape my reach,” I whisper.

“I would not count on it too much just yet, young Squire, though I applaud your enthusiasm.”

I stare at the librarian, who was once banished from Athens for killing too many young adults, and thank him.

“Now, a less combat-oriented spell. This one will allow you to see through walls as if they were windows…”

The session continues and I start collecting spells. My training in the magical arts will continue in an arena, but I will be sure to return to the library on occasion.

The next class is one on law, taught by Marlan himself. I find that a lot of common rules used throughout covens have been co-opted by Constantine when he created the Accords. After all, why discard something that had worked for centuries? This is where the issues start, however. Mask laws put the emphasis on secrecy and the respect of nation-wide directives, while Eneru unsurprisingly place the city-masters at the heart of their system. The influence a city-master wields in their domain is simply unequalled, and only legal travelers are protected from their reach. It makes the legislation between Eneru and Mask faction members in time of peace impossibly complex.

“Do not worry overmuch, there are many contradictory elements and no one cares about precedent. You simply need to be aware of the law. Most of those cases will be solved not before court but behind closed doors, with dealings and compensation,” Marlan tells me.

“What if they cannot agree?”

“Then you have a minor vampire war and that mission was a failure,” Marlan says, and I wince.

“It will happen,” he adds. “Sometimes, our kind is just looking for an excuse. The savviest Knights know when to withdraw, or when to punish.”

“We can intervene directly?”

“If you feel the need. We rarely do so. It will be covered in the squad leadership classes which you will attend later. Remember that any intervention will put you at risk, and also that half of our casualties come from politics-related issues. You do not want that to happen.”

The lesson finishes a bit later and I rejoin my group for a small get-together. The discussion is mostly between Phineas and I, with Lars occasionally commenting. As for Esmeray, she spends this free time in full wolf form. It also explains how she can be such a good shade. Her wolf form is not the same as a werewolf’s one. Her shape is that of a normal animal, only darker, and she has a remarkable ability to hide her aura and presence in that shape. This time allows us to compare notes and to get acquainted. I spend a lot of time talking about some of my past experiences, and getting recognition for those. Phineas also has some interesting stories about people who disrespected him and how, as the accountant and paymaster of his coven, he made their lives miserable without failing his duties.

Then comes the last branch of the evening. I have agreed to a special lesson involving Anatole’s team, the more experienced Knights. It is a test. A test to see exactly where he stands, but also how much I can achieve with no equipment.

I enter the arena set for the challenge, an empty place of sand devoid of obstacles. it will make the opposing team’s task easier. At first.

The squad trainer awaits with my opponents. My nemesis is by his side.

“Ah, Squire Ariane. Thank you for joining us,” the trainer says without malice. “Team Aspen, tonight you will practice an important skill: how to stop a rogue.”

Only a vampire could spot the minute sneer on the face of the other team’s shield-bearer. The other members are mostly guarded, their stoic bodies at attention. There are five of them, a Roland shield-bearer with little interest for subtlety, a Cadiz fencer straight out of a pirate story, an Amaretta mage with her face veiled, a young-looking Dvor covered in knives and another Cadiz with a maul.

“The test begins now.”

I rush forward, without waiting for anything. This is a rogue fight. A rogue has no rules.

The first to react is the Amaretta. She steps back and whispers something and I almost stumble. Only years of experience keep me going.

My intuition is gone.

I feel like I had one limb removed from me and must now fight amputated. The feeling of loss claws at me, demanding satisfaction, but not now. A rogue is cunning, not smart, but cunning. I rush to the side of the shield-bearer, aiming at the maul-wielder. He is only now starting to move. I pretend to expose my flank. The shield-bearer strikes with a sword.

I roll under his blow.

The steel sword still rakes against my back. I could not adjust that well without intuition fine-tuning me, but it will suffice. I grab on his leg and bite behind his knee.

I taste the barest hint of essence but I do not draw it.

A sword skewers me, missing my heart by a finger. HURTS.

“Stop!” the trainer says, and we all freeze.

“Mannfred, remove that sword from her. You are out.”

“What?”

“A Devourer bit you. You are out. Just in case it was not clear, if a Devourer plunges their fangs in you, you are dead unless someone disables them in the following half a second. Even then… you will wish you were. The exercise resumes in three seconds. Three, two, one, go!”

I stand up and grab the sword from the shield-bearer’s semi-resisting fingers. A rogue often dislikes weapons, but a rogue is cunning.

I back away and dodge a maul strike, then twist to avoid three knives. A fourth finds my shoulder. I brandish the sword like a javelin and find the Amaretta vampire, still hanging back. She crouches and I realize that I will not get her. She will see. GET TO THE TENDER ONE.

I roar and use all of my raw strength. The sword flies through the air at the knife wielder who fails to deflect it. His gasp of pain distracts the swordsman as I grab the knife from my shoulder and throw it at him. A rogue is cunning. I do not need intuition. Power is a crutch. Take my weapons and I can still fight. I CAN ALWAYS HUNT.

The swordsman dodges at the last moment, though he pays for his inattention with a gash to the cheek. I jump over the descending maul and bite its wielder.

“Basil, you are out.”

I sprint. The knife wielder is still removing the sword from his chest. It is planted in his sternum, a very painful wound. He has to drag the blade out handspan by handspan.

I change my target at the last moment and jump on the pirate swordsman rushing to help his companion. PAIN. His sword through my hand. I close the distance and slap him.

A claw wound would take too long to regenerate. This is not the purpose of the exercise. He goes down anyway.

The knife-thrower offers little resistance.

To her credit, the Amaretta spellcaster extends a folding quarterstaff and faces me head on. I end the fight by slamming her against the wall, but keeping her face intact as a favor.

“And stop! Full team wipe.”

I stand up and return to my side of the arena. The Knights regain theirs with obvious displeasure, except for the Amaretta woman who just brushes sand off her uniform.

“Mannfred, why were you not ready?”

How bold of the trainer. Most of the time, criticism comes through understatements or in private. Public chastisement is a good way to antagonize us. Case in point, Mannfred hisses, showing a bit of fang.

“You always ask us to bow first.”

“Oh, do I? You stand in an arena in full armor but you also need to be told to bow to be ready?”

The instructor’s tone is cold and humorless, his point clear. Mannfred does not react, though the anger in him radiates outward. This victory brings me no joy either. They were not taking this, and me, seriously. It was a disappointing Hunt.

I lick my lips to chase away Mannfred’s essence. To bite without drawing frustrates me to no end. If it were with friends, I would not mind as much, but those people are… not truly mine. The Knights are structured like mortal orders, with some concessions made to our nature. They have not formed a coven. Its members are not mortals. We are creatures of instinct.

I am Thirsty. CULL THE WEAK. No. This is not my decision to make.

I listen impassively as the instructor lectures his pupils.

“You have slain a rogue Kalinin a decade ago. It was a good job, neatly executed. It made you overconfident. Not all rogues are equal. You never know when you will end up facing a rogue Devourer.

“Rogue Devourers are force-fed powerful essence. Their physical abilities are like nothing you have seen before. They will be truly, utterly mad and no pain will break through the terrible Thirst gripping their insane minds. Squire Ariane is showing kindness by demonstrating an approximation of their behavior and fighting methods, but remember that they may be even worse, and it is common for Knights to fall to them. Once even an entire team,” he adds gravely, to his pupils’ horror.

Malakim.

“We will start over. Squire Ariane, the exercise begins when you move.”

I nod in understanding and wait for them to raise their weapons. I charge forward… and back out immediately.

Now, they are a Knight squad. The three front-liners work in harmony, their support keeping me pinned and disabled. The swordsman and shield-bearer keep their pressure on with light strikes while the mauler occasionally throws a devastating, powerful blow, when he knows that his allies cover him. I am still faster than any single fighter but it is not enough, not when I am practically fighting a creature with five bodies and ten hands. They manage to back me up against the wall but I use it to run and jump higher, our fight turning into a pursuit. I slap the swordsman on his greaves as he overextends and pull out almost immediately to avoid a particularly vicious hammer strike.

I am… tiring.

The night nears its end. I have studied and fought to the most of my abilities. I must now contend with the Amaretta sealing my intuition, and my own instincts pushing me to KILL.

A near miss leaves me sliding across the sand. I jump to avoid two thrown knives, too harried to even pick one up. I am not a rogue. I must act like a rogue. I must listen to my instincts. KILL THEM. DRAIN THEM DRY. I must ignore my instincts. My aura bubbles.

The hammer hits the sand, sending a wave of grit in the air.

Need... to stop or I will HUNT instead.

The face of the hammer wielder, my hands around his ears. He is quite handsome, with skin damaged by the sea and blue eyes like a Turner painting, ethereal and beautiful. A sword slices into my flesh, another. The pain is muted.

I breathe and center myself. The essence is me. The bubbles are like emotions for a mortal. They exist, but they have no impact. They do not have to spread and explode. They can simply exist.

Bubble, bubble toil and trouble sunlight burns and slit throats gurgle…

I come to. The mauler and I are still locked, close to one another, unmoving. His eyes dive into mine with rare serenity, and I slowly, slowly relax my fingers from his head. The claws have drawn a little blood but the man does not show signs of pain.

Only then do I realize the silence. Only then do I remember to close my mouth with an impossibly loud click.

“I think it would be better to stop for tonight,” I finally allow, realizing that I am surrounded by the squad and that they are, essentially, ready to kill me.

“That would be for the best. Perhaps the test was too intensive,” a smooth voice declares. To my surprise, it is Anatole.

I stand up. I was not about to Devour that man, I simply didn’t want the sand to erupt with thorny growths. I cannot express it, however. It would be admitting weakness. I cannot do that. Let them think what they will.

I leave Anatole’s team to train and look for the ‘hotel’. We have a variety of mortals sent here for short periods. Many of them come from Russia and I have some trouble talking to them, but they all know what I need. I pick up a powerfully-built forester who smells a bit of tea and jam. He slakes my thirst, to an extent. Training here is arduous. My vitality expenditure reaches heights I had not experienced since before I became a Master. Perhaps Anatole was indeed correct and I am pushing myself too far without the occasional release of a Hunt brought to its proper conclusion. I may want to look into it before my mood plummets, along with my patience.

The night ends with some relaxation. We are encouraged to pick up a hobby, and I have decided on a new one besides drawing which I feel reluctant to do here. I have decided that I will play the piano.

“You are picking up the technical aspect very fast, as you are wont to do. Unfortunately, the emotions do not convey,” a mortal with short brown air informs me, speaking French with a strong Russian accent. She blinks and averts her eyes.

“I know. I still wish to learn. Who knows, it could prove useful down the line,” I reply.

“Have you considered another instrument? Like the flute? We also offer singing classes.”

“Oh, trust me, you do not want that.”

The next night, we practice moving as a team again. It appears that we have been assessed and considered wanting on every aspect of our craft, from fighting to diplomacy. As such, Team Willow will practice the basics. We move in formation through a variety of difficult terrain at increasingly higher speeds. On occasion, our formation instructor will create an event by throwing a stone in our direction or by starting a light. When that happens, we are to smoothly change direction to investigate the cause of the disturbance. We have a few false starts, and it takes a few minutes to explain to Esmeray that ‘investigate’ does not mean ‘turn furry and disappear off somewhere’. It takes hours, but eventually we manage to cooperate better.

I find the whole exercise frustrating.

I am used to running at full speed, this whole… tame maneuvering bores me. I must pay attention to alternate paths so that Lars and Esmeray can remain at my side. If there are none, I must signal and the formation closes in a single line behind me. Am I hunting, or am I herding ducklings?

Not to mention, there is nothing to find. I can feel and taste our instructor on the wind. He makes no effort to hide. We run in circles again and again without any outlet, teased by someone that only rules protect. I am going mad.

On the next night, Octave meets me outside of his training room. I feel his aura brush against mine and hiss at the disrespectful way he gauges me. Very cavalier of him!

“Ariane, what a wonderful coincidence. I was notified of a small matter requiring my attention. How would you like some werewolf blood?”

“Yes please.”