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"I'll try to make sure you still have two when we're done," Cain was already standing beside the truck, two human foot sized craters a few meters away from where he’d landed. He smirked at her message, conveying a simple thought in response that told her his puppets were entirely expendable. If this altered her plans any, she would know ahead of time that their lives were unimportant to him. As he waited, a flashback occurred to him. “It’s ironic, what these things do to you,” Cain had once said to a man in a black suit across from him. Back then, Cain’s suit was white. “You fight so hard to ascend, to grow into what, this?”  He plucked at the admittedly immaculate stitching of his blazer, but the implications were clear. “The closer you get to that great light you’re looking for— the power to tell the world what it does and when— the more pieces of yourself you have to cut all up and set on fire.” “Oh Cain, nobody ever asked you to cut yourself all up like that,” laughed the man in black, leaning on the desk. “This whole world is here for the taking. It may kick and scream, but you’ll never grab on if you’ve given it your hands.” The man in black tapped his temple. “You have to be smart.” Cain had thought himself a coward compared to the man in black. Had he not come so far by now, run so far away from that fear? Had he not tarried long enough on the human plane? Why had he become the shadow, dissolved his soul into a dust of fragments and imparted them on millions of the living, such that his original self was more an external figment held within each of their hearts and minds than what remained of him inside his own body in the depthless Void... The loss of his race at his own cursed hands, the gross usurpation of his first love at the hands of evil princes, her death and becoming his first reanimation; Cain had run away from life, fabricated a vindication that must be earned against it. ‘Great power is always misused,’ he always told himself, even as he became the subject of his motto.  No, Cain’s lingering was not over yet. He thought his spread less a loss or dispersal than a growing infection, that now its effectiveness sat near the peak of its course. Why had he become the shadow, dissolved his soul into a dust of fragments and imparted them on millions of the living, such that his original self was more an external figment held within each of their hearts and minds than what remained of him inside his own body in the depthless Void… unless he was going to use it? The Earthbreaker, primary remnant of Cain Rose, would exact his purpose of establishing the Dead as an overseer of all of Valucre. It may not happen all at once, but their will would be law. Fear. Its lightning adrenaline raced through his veins, down his spine. Cain Rose felt Phoebe’s fear as she first turned around and laid eyes on the berserker. Cain didn’t need to hotwire the truck. His Dialectic had already made the vehicle an extension of his will. Now, within it, he raced around this corner and then that while debris shattered the passenger-side window and a feeble frame flew, twisted, listing beautifully through the air before crashing like a basketball against a backboard. It was a brutal impact, he could see through the dusty windshield as his dear First fell. What, what in the hell had done this? His bare eyes absorbed layer upon layer of dust as it filled his vehicle. He breathed sheer dirt, saw through sheer dirt, the culprit. The predator. His prey. The truck’s engine roared with unnatural power as Cain gassed it past its limits, the natural engine combusting as he rounded the final corner and the hood caroming off the alley wall. Sparks flew, paint was gnawed away, and the side mirror shattered to oblivion as the truck blazed along the right wall of the alleyway, its headlamps lighting on the fucking bastard that assailed Phoebe. His foot was already crushing the velour floormat through the floor of the truck beneath its gas pedal, red magic illuminating the pluming engine as he accelerated with all of his and the four-ton vehicle’s might into the creature. Just as it sank its maw of multifaceted jaws into Phoebe’s neck, the truck slammed into the beast’s side at hyperspeed. It was dazed by the greatness of its potential kill, caught totally unawares. An amusingly doggish yowl sent it spiraling down the alleyway and down the block as the truck door opened just to Phoebe’s right and Cain fell upon her. He saw the several puncture marks on her immediately and began triaging the rest of her body. Concern wrinkled his brow, but his lips and eyes didn’t change. “I can help you with the injuries, but..” they both knew what the ‘but’ was about. He knew it was a risk to his own life. If she turned, she could become his next enemy. There was the dual threat of both vampiric and Enrele infection. But he was fairly confident he couldn’t do this alone.  Sometimes, risks must be taken for the things you care about. He reached his hand underneath her shirt, placing its calloused warmth against the left side of her ribcage. A black substance secreted from his palm and sapped against her skin before soaking in and beginning to heal the most critical physical damage. Whether she had the faculties to do so or not, no singular Dead should have to do so much when there is viable support so near. If the Dead could escape with their lives and complete the mission, both were always the priority. She was in his arms, then she was in the truck with him. The headlights were off and they backed out of the alleyway at a low speed, engine still smoking, and made their way toward back toward the rendezvous. Cain’s scouts’ locations told him they were just exiting the building trying to escape, still soaked in mana. They had no idea that their berserker hadn’t finished Phoebe off, much less Cain’s whereabouts. The only reason the stabbing of a councilman had caused such an outburst was the fact that Cain’s infestation among the city was common knowledge to this vampire councilman. His whereabouts after their first confrontation were unknown to the Enrele hivemind/coven hybrid. As the four vampires, two Cain’s and two Enrele exited the building, looking this way then that, they saw the truck squealing around the corner and careening toward them. Just at that moment, Cain’s vampires both engaged the singular Enrele guard accompanying the councilman. Screeching to a halt as Cain’s vampires devoured and tore to pieces the one Enrele, Cain held his hands out between him and the Enrele and splayed his fingers. Within each palm was a half spell circle which, when connected by his hands held together, began glowing a sinister mauve.  Within one second, a column of earth rose with the councilman in the center and its roof closed around him, condensing until he would be forced to crouch within. Using his held-together hands to guide the vessel into the truck, Cain clenched his fingers to hold the spell and then released his hands, closing the truck and patting the dust off his pants.

"A'ye...your right...my love.."¥She murmured,Relaxing within his embrace,Nuzzling his jawline.Ghosting light kisses against his jaw,while inhaling kaia's intoxicating aroma.Having celestia fully relax against .She knew that acting upon their more basic and carnal desires,may result in a child,which between her teachings by both parent's,And kaia not wanting a child just yet.especially if they produced a child before any form of marriage ceremony.Though even such thoughts,caused a bout of blush.to scorch across porcelain,snow-kissed cheeks.¥"heh~..though...i must say,picturing y'e,wearing a tuxedo....you'd be v'era dashing my kaia."¥Celestia said,with obvious teasing lilt within her vocals.Eyes glimmering mischeviously,as she peered up toward him.¥

'Curious indeed...' Severin said as Kiko responded to his inquiry about portal magic. He could not help but wholeheartedly agree with her statement that it was a curious thing to learn more about. That such magic, or technology, existed in Valucre was of great interest to him for personal reasons: he had, quite literally, washed up in this world without knowing how he made it here, and seeing a portal in action raised his hopes that his own way home was by no means out of reach. Even so, he did not let this get in the way of some leisure and fun: as Kiko disentangled her arm from him and suggested to give fishing a try, he merely filed what he had just saw away in a corner of his mind, for consideration at a later time, and turned his attentions back to the young lady and to the lake they were all at. 'Oh, I don't mind at all: by all means, let's catch some fish! For me, this wouldn't be the first time I caught fish, but I've never tried doing it with one hand, so today it seems we're both going to be fellow novices here.' Severin replied with a grin. 'The music can wait until later, when everyone can gather around for some food.' As Kiko marched away, heading in the general direction of the lake with a seemingly hesitant and uncertain gait, Severin quickly moved to catch up to her. Having belatedly and finally wisened up to the fact that she had slipped her hand away to tuck her arm in his own during the chatter, he opted to allow her to link arms with him this time. He then lead the two of them to Emilio as he was chucking into the lake an item that appeared to be a mesh cylinder weighed down with stones. The pair came within earshot right as their bearded host explained what he was doing, causing Severin to chuckle in relief. 'You've thought of everything, haven't you? Kiko and I are going to try our hands at fishing, and I'm still sweating over the thought that I might not come back with enough of a catch for everyone to enjoy!' Severin quipped to Emilio. As Emilio offered to give the pair a pole with a wide smile on his face, Severin gave a slight apologetic bow before waving his hand to turn down his offer: with just one free hand, the standard reel-and-rod fishing pole would be difficult to operate. Instead, he already had another idea brewing in his mind. 'Kiko, feel free to take any fishing equipment you like, if any: I'm going to try my hand at fishing with a stick.' said Severin.

As Zihayr spoke, denying the allegory of the fairytale, Valarys turned his eyes away once more to stare at the sky. In its unfathomable depths he saw the stars, glistening like diamond dust. He remembered when he used to count them during sleepless nights, admiring them from afar like a forlorn lover. Here in the mountains, though, they seemed fewer. Dimmer. There were so many, and yet, hardly any at all. Absently, he began to count them as he listened to Zihayr’s words. It was a cold, harsh speech, and the claims Valarys knew him not at all and even less were cruel and accurate at once. But for all the truths that the wolf spoke, all the things that rang sincere, he was wrong. We’re all characters in a story. Stars of our own tale. They were the protagonists, only the villain was winning. No, the villain had won. This was simply the tragic epilogue, the aftermath of a tortured tale. Valarys stopped counting the stars. Twenty-five. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Sweeping over him came a terrible shame and humiliation when Zihayr declared to having read his journal. He felt bared to the world, stripped of dignity. Then again, what else did he expect? What more did he deserve? The weak should stay weak. He waited until the wolf was done, the wolf that now demanded a promise. At the sound of that ridiculous demand, something inside Valarys clenched and twisted in a nearly physical pain. Despite his weakness, his fists clenched at his sides. His knuckles turned white as bleached bone, and it took even more effort to speak.  “Poor you,” Valarys said, his voice low and bitter. “You say I can’t know you feel? How I can’t imagine? That I don’t understand? You assume a lot. All right, fine. I don’t. My parents sold me for gold when I was barely walking and since then I’ve been a toy. I was property before I could talk. I ‘ve never had a friend in my life, because slaves don’t have friends, especially in the Circuit. Which you’ve never been in, so don’t talk at me like I’ve suffered less than you. What you’ve read in my book isn’t even half of it.” Yes, he had written in his book. But most of it, most of his life, he couldn’t remember. The pain and the agony, the years of waking nightmares, had more than once stripped him of memory. One time, on the brink of insanity, he couldn’t even remember his name and stared blankly at this master when he had said it to him. Valarys was far from done. “You talk and talk and talk. About how much you’ve gone through and what you’re going to get. You’re so full of self-pity it makes me sick! If you care so little about yourself, how do you expect to save someone else? Give me a fucking break.” His violet eyes snapped open, swiveled to Zihayr. The flat, icy stare met Zihayr’s, unflinching. “Now, you talk about saving me. Guess what? That’s all it is. Just talk. Stupid, empty talk. When I die or not isn’t your decision. Fakhri was my last Circuit trainer, you idiot. If he decides I’m done, there’s no saving me.  There wasn’t then, and there isn’t now. There’s no saving anyone, and…” I’m not going to leave you. “… and what you did hours ago was a fluke and a mistake.” He closed his eyes again, heaving a heavy, sigh. “Sorry, Zihayr. I’m not going to make a promise I can’t keep, and you shouldn’t make promises you can’t, either.” The lookout, rattling his dice, got up and sauntered into the cave, likely switching his shift with the next chosen sentry. “Go to sleep,” Valarys said. For the first time, he sounded sad. There’s no saving me. Or anyone. Sleep. Sleep. ~ With a soundless scream, Valarys woke. Soundless, because his mouth was covered with a rough, foul hand, and his throat forced shut with a tight fist. Mouth open in a wide, feral grin that was half a scowl, Fakhri crouched over him. “Thinking of escaping, Val? Talk a little softer with your puppy so your betters can’t hear.” Fakhri looked over his shoulder, at the last guard. “Good work. Go wait with the others.” The guard, the cook from earlier whose talents had warranted him a place in Fakhri’s crew, nodded and went to stand with the group at the back of the lodge. They were all awake. Why were they all awake? “You’ve forgotten yourself, my boy,” Fakhri snarled as Valarys tried to struggle and failed. “It’s time I remind you who you are. What you are. Time we did. And by the time we’re done, you’ll wish your wolf had tried to escape.” His fingers tightened round Valary’s face, carving deep grooves over his cheeks. “It pays to have good men in your group, you know, and it pays to not be so careless, pet.” No… The slavers smiled hungrily as Fakhir’s other grip tightened on Valayr’s throat and pulled him upright. Terrified, Valarys’s eyes shot over the group. There were at least ten of them. Maybe more. Much more. They turned to each other and began to argue who would go first. Belts were already loosing. With a chortle, Fakhri threw him into the midst of them. The monsters reached up, seized hold, and dragged him down to the floor, laughing. “NOOOOOO!”

“No.  I was not wearing this armour when I killed them. I was wearing that suit you thought I looked so handsome in.”   He laughed quietly almost as if shy, but of course there was nothing demure about the devil. And although he lowered his crimson gaze and retreated into the innermost parts of his mind to consider the difference between a fine cut of fabric and the sharp weight of his armor, Gabriela saw through the peaceful contemplation. Before her stood a bloodthirsty killer -- a rabid dog that at the first scent of blood had gone mad with rage. He was not a Gentleman Sage, he was not a Duke of Perdition, the titles were meaningless and nothing more than facades to hide the truth of it.   An exoskeleton.   A monstrosity.    He sighed and touched his chest with those gloved hands of his. Blackened fingers crossed the surface of a golden dragon. She wondered if he recalled her own crest, or if he had in fact, ever seen it at all -- a black field, a golden dragon reaching upward toward a sliver of a golden moon, but never reaching it. The thought of her crest was sudden, and offensive in a way, and it made her frown deeply. The expression was set on Roen, being that it was his egotism that had brought about the mostly unpleasant memory. It was laden with meaning, but mostly, it came with vivid images of her father pouring over history books with her -- the chronicles of her family, of his family.    Sleep had fled, along with all hopes of peace. The dull ache of a forthcoming hangover was on the horizon, she could feel it behind her eyes. There was no escaping the abuse she had caused her body. Just like the throbbing that was starting to pulse in her cut foot. Suddenly, she found herself excruciatingly aware of the edges of sharp glass that were currently embedded in her flesh. Her toes hurt horribly, but she ignored it in place of setting her feet back down on the floor and sitting upright on the chair.   “The same guests that were butchering each other while you fled. While you were showing me the crease of your arse, the people you invited to celebrate your birthday turned that nightclub into a bloodbath. I saw it. All those handsome bastards and pretty girls, tearing themselves apart while assassins, always the assassins, used the cover of chaos to try killing you. And me. They were all animals, and I slaughtered them like animals.”   “That sounds dangerously close to a criticism, dear…” she hissed through clenched teeth, “...would you have had me stay? Should I have partaken of the fumes coming through the vents and engaged in the mindless bloodlust? Maybe that’s what you wanted -- a perfectly acceptable reason to cut me low.”   Gabriela shrugged her shoulders and leaned back in her chair. She sat like a queen upon a throne, with her eyes set intently upon the devil who now roamed her room like a caged and wounded animal. He walked over broken glass and metal, destroying it a hundred times over under his heavy footfalls. They both knew that he didn’t need an excuse to cut her down. There was never a reason for Roen to seek validation for the choices he made. He did as he pleased  and whenever he pleased without concern or care for how it may affect others -- she did not hold this sentiment for herself alone, she saw how his friends suffered for it, she saw how his country suffered for it.    “What do I want from you?”    He nearly spat in her direction and she did wonder if this was not the place where she would die. She had never seen the devil quite so mad. Or perhaps, she had never seen him surrendered so completely to his fury. He seemed a different creature now. He seemed to be moved by the sound of some music that only he could hear and whatever the beat was, it was violent and volatile. Where his dances before had been measured and elegant, but forced -- now he seemed natural, at ease, but brutally horrific.    “I want you to lower your voice and have a care. Do not yell at me again.”   There were sharp words on her tongue -- cruel words. But she kept them sheathed and watched instead the way he threw a glare in her direction and the way he retreated back into himself. There was something there this time, not like before, not the fake show of thoughtfulness. It was sorrow masked in weariness. Perhaps, tears drawn away in the motion of one rubbing exhaustion out of his tired eyes. Or, she could have been imagining it all. Whatever the case, what she saw -- or at least what she believed she saw -- was enough to make the tension lessen in her shoulders.    She couldn’t look at him anymore.   Downcast, her golden eyes roamed the glittering floors of her bedroom. She looked upon the shattered glass and wondered at the mess.    “I am merely the unruly spirit of Roen, refusing to accept my death and instead, choosing to haunt you. And this is nothing but a dream conjured by a very unconventional ghost.”   Reluctantly she regarded him.   “Would that the somnolent reflections of your mind would dream of paradises instead of nightmares such as these.”   “That would not help serve my purpose,” she replied while her eyes followed the gesture of his hands to the destruction that surrounded them.   “I’ll wait for you at the fountain, my love. When all is said and done. We will laugh and we will cry, so long as you don’t take too long.”   He produced a helmet -- a devilish thing. A fitting crown for his head. A true emblem to his power and his might. She sat there, passively examining the hideous thing as he fiddled with it. When her golden eyes lifted to his face she saw the hate. His jaw was tight with it, his brow a deep frown, and his lips a barely contained snarl that she imagined was hiding jagged teeth, ready to rip her flesh and break her bones.   Gabriela slowly got up. She didn’t hide the limp. She didn’t so much as try to hide the fact that the pain was nearly unbearable now. But still, she crept carefully around broken glass -- wanting to avoid further damage. Back to her dresser she went, and after digging through a drawer, she produced a small, yellow-pharmaceutical bottle.   “You’ll be happy to know the situation is worse. Endless bottles of pills that never seem to work.”   She smiled at herself in the mirror, with Roen’s reflection glaring at her over her right shoulder.   “Sleeping in his clothes and still looking his best. He’s so high in the tomb you wouldn’t know he’s dead.”   She fiddled with her bottle, and then without a word and without seeming to count the number, she popped a fistful of small white pills into her mouth. At long last, after shakily pouring herself a glass of water, Gabriela got a taste of it. It was by far the most satisfying thing she had had in a long time, years, decades perhaps...and she drank long and hard. She closed her eyes tight to shut out the light and the image of Roen watching her. She tried to focus on the water and on how good it tasted, and how cool it felt going down her throat, and how heavy it felt settling in her empty stomach. And when it was done, and there wasn’t a drop left, she set the glass down.   “Love is fragile and easily broken, like glass. After the damage, you can pick up the pieces and you can even put it back together, but you rarely find every piece and the glass never looks the same again.”   She turned and regarded Roen.   “You look like you could use a rest. You look like you’d be better dead.”   Again, she shrugged and then she slipped into her bed and turned her back to him. She was small, and her foot continued to bleed. The wound was visible, it was red and angry and open. She was breathing deeply, until she was breathing smoothly and evenly, until she was breathing shallow little breaths. It didn’t take long. She took quite a few pills.