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Tiriana & Slate

• Second Fiddle

Justus Andomus sauntered through the palatial entrance-hall of the mansion with a suitably stately demeanor, even though he rather felt like humming a merry tune as he went. The broom-closet encounter with the upstairs maid, Viria, had been quite pleasant, and if he'd timed it right, he'd be able to catch the cook's assistant alone in the pantry soon. Pausing by a mirror with an a gilded frame, elaborately sculpted to resemble a wreath of flowers, vase, he pulled a spotless handcloth out of his belt-pouch and used it to remove an errant mote of dust from the priceless piece, idly inspecting his appearance in it to make sure that nothing looked out of sorts. Chiseled chin-bones, a neatly-kept goatee with a few stray strands of gray mixed into the black, piercing blue eyes, and pale, unblemished skin... with, perhaps, a developing wrinkle here and there. No wonder they could never resist him! Still, he'd need to tell the downstairs maid that she needed to be more thorough when cleaning the mirror. That was his job, after all - he was the Master's Majordomo, the Butler, the keeper of his house and the commander of his staff of servants. It was a fine position, one he was well-compensated for - and not just in coin, either!

Rounding a corner by the stairs, he spotted Tuccia - the aforementioned downstairs maid - busily sweeping the floor. She spotted him too, and a very pretty blush crept onto her cheeks - no doubt, she was remembering their earlier 'meeting' in the linen-closet. Between that and the determination with which she was attacking the floor, he decided to forgo his planned comment about the speck of dust on the mirror, and merely gave her a smile and a nod. "Oh, Andomus, sir..." she twittered as he drew close. "How fare the Master? I have been terribly worried about him - I really wish he'd gone to see a healer in the city about that animal-bite..."

Ah, gossip - the main currency of servants everywhere. Well, he had a few minutes to spare, and besides, calming anxious maids was_part of his duties too. "He is improving, Tuccia, worry not..." He declared, keeping his voice deep and calm. It was true, after all - partially, at least. Master Quintus _had proclaimed that he felt loads better when he visited him in the study earlier, and he'd eaten his lunch with ample appetite. Still, he didn't exactly _look_that healthy - all pale and sweaty, with darkening rings around his eyes - and privately, Justus rather agreed that it would've been wiser to seek a healer's counsel rather than rely on a simple healing-potion and a herb-laced compress meant to drain the infection from his wound. He was hardly a doctor himself, but even _he_knew that healing-potions tended to work poorly against infections.

"You should not second-guess the Master's decisions, my dear..." he nonetheless said out loud, with a slight finger-wag to drive it home. "The visitors he is expecting are important people, and they have traveled far to meet him. He decided that it was more important that he be here to greet them, rather than away in town getting his wound seen to - and it isn't our place to argue that point, but simply to ensure that his visitors arrive in a spotless home, with a fine dinner awaiting their pleasure." Tuccia nodded, looking suitably chastised, and he gave her a quick smile and a pat on the bum to take the edge off the rebuke before continuing on his way.

Pausing by a window, he gazed out over the estate's expansive gardens. Twilight had fallen, and the moon was rising over the hedges - full and round, like a fine wheel of cheese. Beautiful - romantic, even! Perhaps after catching the cook's assistant in the pantry, he'd sneak out to see if the gardener's daughter was interested in an evening walk and a roll in the bushes. Knowing who the soon-to-arrive visitors actually were, chances were that the Master would want to meet with them in private after dinner, without even his faithful butler there to pour the drinks, so he'd likely have the leisure...

A distant growl made him pause, just as he was turning from the window - his brow furrowing. He'd specifically instructed the gatekeeper to kennel all the guard-dogs for the evening, so as not to bother the guests. Had one of them managed to slip out? If so, the gatekeeper was in for a stern talking-to. Before he could finish that thought, however, another sound made a cold sensation run down his spine - a howl, muffled but still sonorous. No guard-dog - it sounded more like a wolf. A pack of them had apparently started coming down from the nearby mountains to prey on the flocks of the shepherds that lived under the Master's protection, prompting the recent hunting-trip where he'd picked up the wound that clearly still bothered him so. Perhaps a particularly daring specimen had taken advantage of the kenneled dogs to sneak onto the manor grounds in search of food?

But... that sound, had it really come from outside? Pulse rising, he felt a slow-building dread as he stepped away from the window, eyes darting around the familiar hallway. Then a third noise echoed through the quiet manor-house and shattered all doubt. A scream - one he was quite familiar with. Viria - the upstairs maid. Not a scream of pleasure, though - not this time - but a scream of terror and pain. Part of him wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction as quickly as his legs could carry him - perhaps leaping straight out of the window would be the wisest course? But... he was the Majordomo. The butler. He'd partaken of the Master's purse, and of the virtue of nearly every female servant in the house. He had a duty. And so, gritting his teeth, he sprinted in the direction of the stairs, aware by now that the growl and the howl had, like the scream, come from upstairs.

Keltinor glared up the gravel-path at the silent manor-house as he paced before the front gates - the most obvious point of entry _or_escape. Once, that path had been carefully-manicured, kept free of weeds and likely raked on a daily basis. Now, though... previous attempts by the manor's new residents to breach the rather shaky 'siege' he'd established had left it cratered, charred, and splattered with large amounts of dried and blackened blood. "Moon's coming up..." a voice whispered in his ear. Thanks to the Sending-spell, it sounded like Vanthia was coiled right next to him, rather than watching the eastern side of the manor grounds on his orders. He allowed himself a brief glance eastwards to see that, sure enough, the pale white circle was appearing above the treetops even as the orange glow of the sunset began to fade.

"Still no sign of the reinforcements..." the whispering voice continued, a slight edge to it. Turning his eyes back towards the manor - specifically, the already-broken front doors - he focused a bit of his will into the enchanted necklace he wore, activating his own Sending-spell without needing to shift to his human form and cast it himself. "Just hold the line. They'll be here before sunrise, guaranteed." He kept his voice gruff and even - projecting both the authority of a leader, and the certainty that such a leader_needed_ in order to maintain that authority. Of course, ideally, he also needed to actually be right.

It wasn't as if the confidence was unwarranted, though. Lord Blake knew perfectly well what 'help needed as soon as possible' meant in this line of work. He'd have dispatched Lord Nycht right away, and considering how quickly a Black Dragon could move when he was in a rush... they'd be here soon, surely. Good thing, too, 'cuz they wouldn't last much longer like this - everyone was getting worn out, even Kirsten. They'd hoped that the manor's residents would calm down once the moon began to wane, and perhaps they had - but if their instincts had grown less overwhelming, then their panic and desperation had clearly taken over as a driving force.

Redirecting his Sending-spell, he targeted the western side of the manor instead, where the most deadly member of his little team was positioned. In that direction, the well-kept manor grounds gave way to a dense forest, with only a thin band of cleared ground and a steel-tipped fence marking the boundary between cultivated garden and wildlands. Anything that escaped in that direction would be able to disappear in short order... but then, that was why he'd placed Kirsten there. Her childlike appearance could fool many a target, but he knew better - she was a vampire with centuries of life behind her, equipped with both preternaturally sharp senses and many terrifying abilities. "I see movement inside..." he whispered in her direction. "I hope you're ready."

It took a couple of seconds before he got a reply. She wasn't a particularly skilled magic-wielder, having had little opportunity to study the arts before arriving at the Utopia, and she'd proven a rather disinterested study - but at least, she'd managed to pick up the basics of wizardry, and mastered a handful of important utility-spells before losing interest in her studies altogether. Sending was a pretty simple spell, fortunately, and one that had proven to be priceless in the field, more than once. "I'm always_ready, Sir..." her voice now floated to his ear, sweet and seductive. "Maybe if I put down another couple of fleabags, I'll have earned a _reward, hmm?"

He had to chuckle at that. The constant vigilance had to be wearing on her, but she refused to show it - favoring instead the same kind of saucy flirtatiousness that usually marked their idle times together. "Perhaps you will indeed..." he rumbled back. "Once this is all over, and we've all caught up on our sleep." Her answer arrived a moment later, and was missing some of its previous playfulness. "I might hold you to that, Sir. Also, I'm seeing movement now too, in the windows. How are there still so many left?!"

Keltinor's eyes had been fixed on the broken double-doors of the manor's facade throughout the conversation. His night-vision wasn't as good as Kirsten's, but there were definitely shadows shifting at the edges of that gaping doorway now. "A manor this size would've had dozens of servants and guards on staff..." he replied, keeping as calm as he could. "Along with the owner's family. Aside from the women, they'll all have changed by now. So far, we've got... nine confirmed kills, I believe? And the ones that managed to flee back inside after last night's escape-attempt will have recovered fully from their injuries by now. So yeah, they'll still have plenty of numbers left."

That was all the chatter they had time for. Shadows gained solidity as a handful of furry bodies emerged from the broken door in a four-legged dash. Only two of them looked fully like wolves - the rest were moving like gorillas, clawing at the ground with their long, powerful arms in order to propel themselves forwards at a faster pace. Still, the fact that there were any wolves suggested that at least some of the freshly-turned lycanthropes within the mansion were starting to develop a basic understanding of, and control over, their new, bestial powers. That was not good news.

The low profile and greater speed of those quick studies made them an obvious priority target. Yipes and howls of pain resounded across the circular plaza in front of the mansion as sparks of destructive magic flew from the tips of his curled, black horns - simple, offensive sorcery that he could hurl out quickly and easily, without needing the flexibility of human hands. These magical missiles were quite accurate, even over such range, but the werewolves were devilishly fast - they got singed and winged repeatedly as they threw themselves this way and that in leaps, darts and rolls, but lycanthropes were tough. The attacks were pinning them down, but not really doing anything to take them permanently out of commission, and at the same time, their more humanoid peers were making a somewhat awkward but still swift dash across the torn-up, knee-high hedges and flower-patches, making for the corners of the garden. They'd be able to scale the fence without too much trouble if they got to it - heck, considering that the fence edging the front of the gardens was lower and more ornate than those at the sides, they could probably leap right over it.

In the distance, he could hear other magical explosions and shrieks of pain. The encircled werewolves were, as expected, smart enough to try and hit every side of the 'siege' at once, ensuring that none of his troops could be spared to assist. In the east, bursts of sullen red echoed the sun that had so recently set - Vanthia's infernal magic, peppering the more open eastern grounds, where there was little cover to be had, with bolts and balls of hellish flame. In the west, there were only screams - ones that sounded equal parts animalistic and human. Werewolves were fast, but Kirsten was faster - and while her skill with magic was basic at best, any creature that wound up within arm's reach of her was dead before it could take another breath. Her hypnotic eyes could also lock down any weak-willed creature that had the misfortune of meeting them, paralyzing them on the spot for the moment it would take her to reach it. A deadly combination, and while the trees and shrubbery that marked the western gardens provided ample cover, none of it mattered one whit against the ancient vampire's speed, senses and lethal abilities.

He's chosen the disposition of his forces well. And placed himself_here, at the front gates, surrounded by a much weaker fence and with modest cover for the attackers to hide behind - so he'd bloody well better live up to his own hype, wouldn't he? Swearing under his breath, he switched his focus - ignoring for the moment the singed and bloodied but still mobile four-legged specimens, and instead hurtling bolts of magic at the bipedal ones. They couldn't use the low cover as well, they weren't as good at dodging, and the way they were fanning out he _needed to take them out before they got too far away. He was fast, yes - in a straight line or across wooded territory, he was faster even than Kirsten - but he couldn't be in two places at once.

One werewolf went down, howling in agony as its fur caught on fire from a well-placed flamebolt - rolling around on the ground, desperate to put out the hungry flame before it could continue to spread. Another took a lightning-bolt to the thigh, sending him to his knees with a disturbingly human-like cry. The electric charge had paralyzed his leg for the moment, and before he could recover, a carefully-aimed bolt of darkness struck him in the face. Werewolves were tough, and could regenerate rapidly from most injuries - but fire made it harder, and negative energy attacks tended to punch through their defenses. The second werewolf fell over without another sound - there were no visible injuries on his head, but Keltinor knew better - the creature was stone-dead now, its brains having been thoroughly scrambled by the shadowbolt.

The other werewolf, meanwhile, had gotten most of the fire put out and was now scrambling back towards the manor's front doors, covered in burns and yipping pathetically. Alas, he had no time to put it out of its misery - the third of the bipedal lycanthropes had just reached the fence and was bunching his legs for a mighty leap. As he soared into the air, however, a wide burst of magically-projected force struck him in the side, throwing off his trajectory - he tumbled in the air, landing back-first atop the fence. Decorative and gilded though they were, the wrought iron spikes that lined the fencetop were still quite sharp, and landing upon them with his full weight and then some, the werewolf's toughness couldn't prevent them from penetrating its flesh. Howling and coughing, his lungs clearly pierced, the creature struggled and writhed atop the fence while Keltinor finally returned his attention to the two wolves that were dashing towards him, closing in fast.

In their four-legged forms, they would find it difficult to clear the fence - so, despite the injuries they'd already sustained, they'd decided to approach the front gates where he still stood, arriving from two different angles on the logic that he wouldn't be able to stop them both. Fairly solid reasoning, unfortunately. Letting the complexities of magic slip from his mind, he focused instead on his body - a fearsome instrument in its own right, of course. A solid ton of blood-red muscle and equine sinew, with hooves and horns of obsidian-black... capable of shifting on his whim. Claws, talons, tusks, spiked armor-plates - all were within his reach, manifesting in a split second.

Letting his hooves extend into long, razor-sharp talons, similar to those of the dragons he now lived and worked alongside, he reared up and slashed down at the two wolves as they approached, crossing each other's path just as they reached the gate that he so zealously guarded. They were fast, though - and despite their injuries, still slippery. One rolled aside just before his talons descended, barely scratched - the other, though, he caught solidly - slicing into its flank and sending it flying off to the side trailing blood, carried by its own momentum until it hit one of the gate-posts with a sickening thud.

The first one, though... it had slipped right underneath his rear hooves, and was now making a mad dash down the gravel-path that led to the manor gates. Cursing, he wheeled on it and let the talons shift back into solid hooves, setting off after it at a full gallop. It took him several seconds to catch up, sending it tumbling upwards with a kick to the hindquarters, and then grabbing it out the air with his fangs. The blood that filled his mouth tasted... all too sweet. Succulent flesh, fresh and vibrant, still wriggling weakly between his gums... the heartbeat within, slowing as his fangs sank deeper, but still filled with throbbing life-force...

Grimacing, he spat the werewolf out on the ground, and crushed its head with a swiftly-descending hoof. He no longer thought of his Bicorn instincts as being the 'enemy', something purely evil... but there was a time and a place for indulging himself in his dark heritage, and this wasn't it. Turning, he galloped back towards the gates. The werewolf impaled atop the fence was still there, struggling and gasping, trying to get a good grip on the surrounding spikes so it could lift itself off. A quick shadowbolt to the face put a swift end to its pain, just as it had for the other. The wolf he'd left by the gate was gone, a blood-trail leading back up the path to the manor's front doors - yes, there it was, halfway towards them, still dragging itself along despite the severity of its injuries. Maybe he could still run it down before it managed to disappear back inside the mansion?

"Master! They're coming out the back!" A voice shouted in his ear, making him wince. Seemed like the wounded wolf would live for a bit longer - he couldn't afford to chase after it. As it was, it took him a moment to focus on the enchanted necklace he wore, directing another Sending towards Heaina, who had been assigned to watch the back of the manor. She couldn't fight effectively against something like a werewolf - she was just a servant and assistant - but the back of the manor offered little in the way of escape-options anyway, so she was just there to keep an eye on it. The grounds bordered a steep escarpment at the back, where some long-ago earthquake had rearranged the local geology to create a solid, natural fortification, and even the werewolves wouldn't be making their way up that. "Where are they going?" He barked, letting the magic carry his voice across the intervening space to her ears. The answer came with a moment's delay. "Right! Uh... west, I mean west!" She sounded somewhat panicked - perhaps no surprise. She'd been stationed at the mansion's back for the last few nights, but this was the first time anything had actually happened there.

The lapse in providing clear directions could be corrected later, however. As could the fact that she really should've Sent word directly to Kirsten when she saw where they were going. At this point, telling her off would just be a waste of precious time - it was faster to just redirect his own Sending towards the vampire. "Escapees coming out the back!" he cracked at her. "Heading your way - probably going to make for the northern edge of your perimeter!" There was no reply for several painfully long seconds. When it finally came, it was preceded by several rather archaic cursewords. "The main wave led me to the southern edge, near the hedge-maze in the corner!" Kirsten barked back. She didn't sound breathless, but then again, she didn't actually need to breathe - no matter how fast she was running. "Sorry, boss - I might not be able to make it up there in time."

Gritting his fangs, Keltinor stared westwards. Should he gallop over to try and help? Could he make it in time? The night was still young - there could be werewolves just inside the front doors, watching and waiting, ready to make a dash for the gates if he left his post. Was there anything he could do to stop this final group of werewolves from making it out? Suddenly, a familiar voice resounded in his ear - elated, rather than panicked. Vanthia. "They're coming! Black shadow against the stars, from the direction of the rendezvous-point! Must've seen all the fire I was throwing out and headed this way to investigate!"

The reinforcements. Just a tiny bit too late. Or perhaps right in the nick of time? Turning his sight in the direction Vanthia had called out to him, he desperately focused his eyes. Yes... a vague silhouette that swallowed the stars... a black dragon in flight. Within range? Maybe, barely. Fixing the image of the great, black-scaled reptile in his mind, he retargeted the Sending-spell, pouring some extra magic into the necklace from his own reserves to give it a bit more oomph. "Sir! Red Hand is fully engaged with lycanthropic hostiles!" He shouted, hoping that the dragon would be able to hear him over the howling of the high-altitude winds - it wasn't telepathy, after all, but an air-based spell that carried the sound of his voice to the target. "A group are escaping around our western cordon, making for the woods! I have no personnel in position to intercept - can you stop them?"

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Perhaps the spell hadn't been able to reach that far, or perhaps... ah! Yes, the silhouette was changing direction now, heading west. A feminine voice rang in his ear - "Red Hand, we are making for the western edge of the grounds - a trio of werewolves are currently crossing the fence-line, and we will attempt to stop them. Do you need them alive?" It made sense, of course, that the Rider would handle the Sending in this case - she'd have the leisure, while her steed was stretching his wings. But the voice was unfamiliar... it wasn't Arsinde, whom he'd worked with a few times before, nor Anitra herself. Who could it be... well, he was vaguely familiar with the remaining DragonRiders of the Utopia, and while he could make a decent guess as to who this might be just by using the method of exclusion, he didn't really need to. That elvish accent said it all.

Fixing the Sending-spell on a mental image of Tiriana Lorasatra, second of the DragonRiders that had appeared in the Utopia, he sent her an answer, keeping his voice loud and clear but shy of a shout. "Negative, My Lady - hostiles are not required for interrogation, just prevent them from escaping." The barely-perceivable black shadow was moving right over the manor-house now. Keltinor was fast, yes, at a dead gallop - and Kirsten was both swift and agile. But compared to a Black Dragon on the wing, they were both just snails, oozing their way across the ground. Seconds later, a burst of incandescent fire emerged from out of the black skies, smashing into the ground somewhere just west of the fence-line. There were no screams that he could hear. Against the intense, magic-devouring heat of a Black Dragon's breath, no amount of unnatural resilience or swift regeneration made one whit of difference - the werewolves would've been reduced to ashes in an instant.

The black shadow was circling back around - heading, no doubt, for the obvious landing-site: The circular patch of gravel in front of the manor's doors, meant to let the chariots and carriages of visitors turn around. Taking a deep breath, Keltinor calmed his heart - still beating fast after that near miss - and carefully Sent his voice to all three of his people in turn with the same question. "Any targets still in sight?" The answer was negative all round. Those werewolves who hadn't already been killed or pushed back had turned tail the moment the dragon so spectacularly announced his arrival - they'd be back in the manor now, trying to come to grips with this new development as their human intelligence warred with their canine instinct to just whine and hide in the deepest hole they could find. "Then gather in front of the manor - we need to touch bases with our newly-arrived reinforcements. Remember to be polite. This may not be Lord Blake himself, but all the black dragons and riders are worthy of respect." A reminder that was more likely to be important for some members of his little team than others, he reflected as he began to canter up the blood-spattered footpath towards the landing-site - especially considering who_exactly_ had come to their aid this time.

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Preview Ends - oh, and there may have been something else between those two segments? If you want to read that, AND the rest of the story, check out my free Discord-server, link is on the front page.