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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.