Chapter 269: 269
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To be able to withstand Azrael's powers...
Rapping my fingers against the arm chair in an attempt to dispel some of the nervous energy that has come to linger in my limbs, I let myself wonder on that statement for a moment. As of yet, I have not anyone (disregarding myself) who has the mental capacity to withstand Azrael's mind tricks and illusions. There is nothing particularly vexing about how people are able to withstand his powers, in fact it is rather simple. It relies simply on ones own strength of mind, their ability to be in control of their own thoughts and the sheer resilience of their being. Hundreds of years of bloodlust, war, and isolation have taught me a thing or two about that.
I always feared that Serena would succumb to them without her necklace, that Azrael would find a way to break and torture her just like he would any other mind slave of his and yet…
It never actually occurred to me that his powers might not work on her. Perhaps it is a foolish and overly hopeful thought, but I am often complacent in giving credit where it is due. Serena is powerful. As powerful as me, I might even add. Although her abilities are not fully honed, that does not push aside the fact that her strength of mind and mental resilience are unusually strong. To keep up such a strong façade of indignance and normality within the walls of my palace is no mean feat after all, and while I may have been able to discover a few cracks in her nature, the rest of the palace certainly hadn't.
Shifting a little on my chair, I cease the thrum of my fingers against the velvet.
Perhaps, just perhaps, even without her necklace, she would be able to withstand him on her own.
But before I can let myself slip into the blissful quiet of the night, content to dote over thoughts over Serena and the bitter reality of not knowing when exactly I will see her again, something makes itself apparent in the periphery of my hearing.
Rising slightly from his seat, Fangorn gives me a sharp look, his body tensed like a lion stalking its prey. Such a tenseness resides in both of us that it takes me a full minute to realise my fingers have ripped through the side of the chair.
"Can you hear that," he mouths over to me, his eyes darting towards the door once more. Following his gaze, I sit for a moment, listening to it once more.
A heart beat. Sluggish and obviously entirely mortal. It is a sturdy thrum of beats that makes its way down the hall on the other side of the door, and an equally weighty set of steps that pursue it that show the tell tale signs of exhaustion. Although in the dead of the morning when the tavern is all but collapsed from a dreary tiredness, there would be very few around to witness such an event. This set of lumbering footsteps that pin prick the silence of the night would go largely unnoticed by many. And those that might notice would be too drowsy under the veil of sleep to even care.
But I am not asleep, nor have I slept once in the several thousand years of my life.
So hearing this creature make its way down the corridor towards us, I find the whole situation rather odd. In fact, almost alarming.
But not entirely unexpected.
I had instructed the bartender not to give away our identity or location to anyone who came into this tavern, but that does not mean there are other methods of rooting us out.
Rising silently from my chair, I give Fangorn a firm look, the same sort of look that had passed between us in the years he wasn't an exile, one of undebatable command:
I will handle this.
The twinkle in his eyes is my only answer, but it is answer enough.
In one swift gulp of cold air, I let the shadows consume me. A stiff feeling tugs at my insides, but the days which that experience felt unpleasant have long since faded. Now, shadow shifting is a necessity, and I cannot afford to indulge myself in notions of discomfort.
Landing firmly in the corridor on the other side of the wall, I remain engulfed in these shadows, watching keenly from the now grey of my vision. The heart beat is louder now.
Engulfed in shadows and invisible to the eye, I swoop about the corridor, letting my discombobulated form ease its way through the darkness. The figure who first caught my attention is visible now, though it is clear from the fixed look on her face that she does not see me. This is a woman on a mission. A mission for what I am about to find out.
Midway through her beeline through the corridor, she stops short, pulling her dark cloak further around her eyes as she stops to the nearest door- our room, and holds her breath, listening. From underneath the shroud of her clothes, her heart is thundering like a jackhammer, threatening to spill out of her chest with each devastatingly fast thud. Silver eyes dart under her hood, and something else silver too, a gleam of a blade, a knife, that she shifts out from under her shawl.
Ah, I think bitterly to myself, my vision darkening with distaste. So this is why she is here. How predictable.
With the gleaming silver blade in one hand, she leans out, her fingers shaky and outstretched as she makes to twist the handle and-
Solidifying from the shadows, I slap the knife clean out of her hand. Before she can even register who I am, that very same knife is engulfed in a burst of dense shadows, claw like hands reaching and grabbing at it from inside that whirlpool of darkness. A second later and those shadowy creatures pull away, leaving a mere stain of a silhouette on the carpet where the knife once was.
Another weapon for my collection, I muse silently to myself, lifting the girls wrist high in the air. By the end of this I might just be able to start a museum- call it the gallery of traitors. I am sure it would earn quite the attention.
"So," I whisper quietly, intending to keep my voice low so as to not wake up the whole establishment. With a free hand, I bring one clawed nail to rest under her chin, slicing into her flesh. Underneath her skin, her heart flutters with the edges of panic. "What ever is a young lady such as yourself doing out here on a night like this with a silver knife, hmm? Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Her silver eyes narrow under the hood. There is anger there, yes, but something more human too- nervousness, fear, an exploitable weakness. I suppose she is not just another mindless slave after all- which makes things all the more interesting.
Why on earth would Azrael be sending conscious mortals to kill me?
"I-" she says much too loudly, so I press my fingers firmly to her lips, giving her a solemn look. Behind their sockets, my eyes smoulder a deep red.
"Now, now," I purr, twisting her hand a little higher above her head. This time, a slight wince escapes that cool façade. A carnivorous smile splays across my face.
"Let us keep this candid, you and I. No need to wake up the whole tavern."
I give her another smile. But the woman narrows her eyes further still, to the point they seem almost entirely closed- or perhaps she is trying to see into my soul, I am not quite sure yet. But her technique is all off.
"I could scream," she hisses, her voice prickling with distaste, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. "I could cry murder," she spits once more, prodding her clawed finger into my chest, but I catch her hand before she can touch me.
All words of threat and no substance, I sigh inwardly to myself. Right now, the poor girl looks as though she is only running on fear. I intend to keep it that way.
"Oh darling," I grin, my fingers tightening around her now. Power buzzes through my palms, swamping us both. "Perhaps that might work on all your other little victims, but I am afraid if you think that will work just as well with me, then you would be sorely mistaken."
With an uprush of cold air, the two of us are quickly consumed in darkness. For fear of her life, the woman clutches on to me, her fingers latched with a fervid terror around my waist. Perhaps on another occasion, if this were a vampire and not a mortal, I might have removed a finger for the sheer audacity, but for now I let it lie. After all, a bloody and wounded girl isn't exactly the most conducive of electing answers.
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To be able to withstand Azrael's powers...
Rapping my fingers against the arm chair in an attempt to dispel some of the nervous energy that has come to linger in my limbs, I let myself wonder on that statement for a moment. As of yet, I have not anyone (disregarding myself) who has the mental capacity to withstand Azrael's mind tricks and illusions. There is nothing particularly vexing about how people are able to withstand his powers, in fact it is rather simple. It relies simply on ones own strength of mind, their ability to be in control of their own thoughts and the sheer resilience of their being. Hundreds of years of bloodlust, war, and isolation have taught me a thing or two about that.
I always feared that Serena would succumb to them without her necklace, that Azrael would find a way to break and torture her just like he would any other mind slave of his and yet…
It never actually occurred to me that his powers might not work on her. Perhaps it is a foolish and overly hopeful thought, but I am often complacent in giving credit where it is due. Serena is powerful. As powerful as me, I might even add. Although her abilities are not fully honed, that does not push aside the fact that her strength of mind and mental resilience are unusually strong. To keep up such a strong façade of indignance and normality within the walls of my palace is no mean feat after all, and while I may have been able to discover a few cracks in her nature, the rest of the palace certainly hadn't.
Shifting a little on my chair, I cease the thrum of my fingers against the velvet.
Perhaps, just perhaps, even without her necklace, she would be able to withstand him on her own.
But before I can let myself slip into the blissful quiet of the night, content to dote over thoughts over Serena and the bitter reality of not knowing when exactly I will see her again, something makes itself apparent in the periphery of my hearing.
Rising slightly from his seat, Fangorn gives me a sharp look, his body tensed like a lion stalking its prey. Such a tenseness resides in both of us that it takes me a full minute to realise my fingers have ripped through the side of the chair.
"Can you hear that," he mouths over to me, his eyes darting towards the door once more. Following his gaze, I sit for a moment, listening to it once more.
A heart beat. Sluggish and obviously entirely mortal. It is a sturdy thrum of beats that makes its way down the hall on the other side of the door, and an equally weighty set of steps that pursue it that show the tell tale signs of exhaustion. Although in the dead of the morning when the tavern is all but collapsed from a dreary tiredness, there would be very few around to witness such an event. This set of lumbering footsteps that pin prick the silence of the night would go largely unnoticed by many. And those that might notice would be too drowsy under the veil of sleep to even care.
But I am not asleep, nor have I slept once in the several thousand years of my life.
So hearing this creature make its way down the corridor towards us, I find the whole situation rather odd. In fact, almost alarming.
But not entirely unexpected.
I had instructed the bartender not to give away our identity or location to anyone who came into this tavern, but that does not mean there are other methods of rooting us out.
Rising silently from my chair, I give Fangorn a firm look, the same sort of look that had passed between us in the years he wasn't an exile, one of undebatable command:
I will handle this.
The twinkle in his eyes is my only answer, but it is answer enough.
In one swift gulp of cold air, I let the shadows consume me. A stiff feeling tugs at my insides, but the days which that experience felt unpleasant have long since faded. Now, shadow shifting is a necessity, and I cannot afford to indulge myself in notions of discomfort.
Landing firmly in the corridor on the other side of the wall, I remain engulfed in these shadows, watching keenly from the now grey of my vision. The heart beat is louder now.
Engulfed in shadows and invisible to the eye, I swoop about the corridor, letting my discombobulated form ease its way through the darkness. The figure who first caught my attention is visible now, though it is clear from the fixed look on her face that she does not see me. This is a woman on a mission. A mission for what I am about to find out.
Midway through her beeline through the corridor, she stops short, pulling her dark cloak further around her eyes as she stops to the nearest door- our room, and holds her breath, listening. From underneath the shroud of her clothes, her heart is thundering like a jackhammer, threatening to spill out of her chest with each devastatingly fast thud. Silver eyes dart under her hood, and something else silver too, a gleam of a blade, a knife, that she shifts out from under her shawl.
Ah, I think bitterly to myself, my vision darkening with distaste. So this is why she is here. How predictable.
With the gleaming silver blade in one hand, she leans out, her fingers shaky and outstretched as she makes to twist the handle and-
Solidifying from the shadows, I slap the knife clean out of her hand. Before she can even register who I am, that very same knife is engulfed in a burst of dense shadows, claw like hands reaching and grabbing at it from inside that whirlpool of darkness. A second later and those shadowy creatures pull away, leaving a mere stain of a silhouette on the carpet where the knife once was.
Another weapon for my collection, I muse silently to myself, lifting the girls wrist high in the air. By the end of this I might just be able to start a museum- call it the gallery of traitors. I am sure it would earn quite the attention.
"So," I whisper quietly, intending to keep my voice low so as to not wake up the whole establishment. With a free hand, I bring one clawed nail to rest under her chin, slicing into her flesh. Underneath her skin, her heart flutters with the edges of panic. "What ever is a young lady such as yourself doing out here on a night like this with a silver knife, hmm? Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Her silver eyes narrow under the hood. There is anger there, yes, but something more human too- nervousness, fear, an exploitable weakness. I suppose she is not just another mindless slave after all- which makes things all the more interesting.
Why on earth would Azrael be sending conscious mortals to kill me?
"I-" she says much too loudly, so I press my fingers firmly to her lips, giving her a solemn look. Behind their sockets, my eyes smoulder a deep red.
"Now, now," I purr, twisting her hand a little higher above her head. This time, a slight wince escapes that cool façade. A carnivorous smile splays across my face.
"Let us keep this candid, you and I. No need to wake up the whole tavern."
I give her another smile. But the woman narrows her eyes further still, to the point they seem almost entirely closed- or perhaps she is trying to see into my soul, I am not quite sure yet. But her technique is all off.
"I could scream," she hisses, her voice prickling with distaste, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. "I could cry murder," she spits once more, prodding her clawed finger into my chest, but I catch her hand before she can touch me.
All words of threat and no substance, I sigh inwardly to myself. Right now, the poor girl looks as though she is only running on fear. I intend to keep it that way.
"Oh darling," I grin, my fingers tightening around her now. Power buzzes through my palms, swamping us both. "Perhaps that might work on all your other little victims, but I am afraid if you think that will work just as well with me, then you would be sorely mistaken."
With an uprush of cold air, the two of us are quickly consumed in darkness. For fear of her life, the woman clutches on to me, her fingers latched with a fervid terror around my waist. Perhaps on another occasion, if this were a vampire and not a mortal, I might have removed a finger for the sheer audacity, but for now I let it lie. After all, a bloody and wounded girl isn't exactly the most conducive of electing answers.
To be able to withstand Azrael's powers...Rapping my fingers against the arm chair in an attempt to dispel some of the nervous energy that has come to linger in my limbs, I let myself wonder on that statement for a moment. As of yet, I have not anyone disregarding myself who has the mental capacity to withstand Azrael's mind tricks and illusions. There is nothing particularly vexing about how people are able to withstand his powers, in fact it is rather simple. It relies simply on ones own strength of mind, their ability to be in control of their own thoughts and the sheer resilience of their being. Hundreds of years of bloodlust, war, and isolation have taught me a thing or two about that.I always feared that Serena would succumb to them without her necklace, that Azrael would find a way to break and torture her just like he would any other mind slave of his and yetIt never actually occurred to me that his powers might not work on her. Perhaps it is a foolish and overly hopeful thought, but I am often complacent in giving credit where it is due. Serena is powerful. As powerful as me, I might even add. Although her abilities are not fully honed, that does not push aside the fact that her strength of mind and mental resilience are unusually strong. To keep up such a strong faade of indignance and normality within the walls of my palace is no mean feat after all, and while I may have been able to discover a few cracks in her nature, the rest of the palace certainly hadn't.Shifting a little on my chair, I cease the thrum of my fingers against the velvet.Perhaps, just perhaps, even without her necklace, she would be able to withstand him on her own.But before I can let myself slip into the blissful quiet of the night, content to dote over thoughts over Serena and the bitter reality of not knowing when exactly I will see her again, something makes itself apparent in the periphery of my hearing. Rising slightly from his seat, Fangorn gives me a sharp look, his body tensed like a lion stalking its prey. Such a tenseness resides in both of us that it takes me a full minute to realise my fingers have ripped through the side of the chair."Can you hear that," he mouths over to me, his eyes darting towards the door once more. Following his gaze, I sit for a moment, listening to it once more.A heart beat. Sluggish and obviously entirely mortal. It is a sturdy thrum of beats that makes its way down the hall on the other side of the door, and an equally weighty set of steps that pursue it that show the tell tale signs of exhaustion. Although in the dead of the morning when the tavern is all but collapsed from a dreary tiredness, there would be very few around to witness such an event. This set of lumbering footsteps that pin prick the silence of the night would go largely unnoticed by many. And those that might notice would be too drowsy under the veil of sleep to even care.But I am not asleep, nor have I slept once in the several thousand years of my life.So hearing this creature make its way down the corridor towards us, I find the whole situation rather odd. In fact, almost alarming.But not entirely unexpected. I had instructed the bartender not to give away our identity or location to anyone who came into this tavern, but that does not mean there are other methods of rooting us out.Rising silently from my chair, I give Fangorn a firm look, the same sort of look that had passed between us in the years he wasn't an exile, one of undebatable command:I will handle this. The twinkle in his eyes is my only answer, but it is answer enough.In one swift gulp of cold air, I let the shadows consume me. A stiff feeling tugs at my insides, but the days which that experience felt unpleasant have long since faded. Now, shadow shifting is a necessity, and I cannot afford to indulge myself in notions of discomfort.Landing firmly in the corridor on the other side of the wall, I remain engulfed in these shadows, watching keenly from the now grey of my vision. The heart beat is louder now.Engulfed in shadows and invisible to the eye, I swoop about the corridor, letting my discombobulated form ease its way through the darkness. The figure who first caught my attention is visible now, though it is clear from the fixed look on her face that she does not see me. This is a woman on a mission. A mission for what I am about to find out.Midway through her beeline through the corridor, she stops short, pulling her dark cloak further around her eyes as she stops to the nearest door- our room, and holds her breath, listening. From underneath the shroud of her clothes, her heart is thundering like a jackhammer, threatening to spill out of her chest with each devastatingly fast thud. Silver eyes dart under her hood, and something else silver too, a gleam of a blade, a knife, that she shifts out from under her shawl.Ah, I think bitterly to myself, my vision darkening with distaste. So this is why she is here. How predictable.With the gleaming silver blade in one hand, she leans out, her fingers shaky and outstretched as she makes to twist the handle and-Solidifying from the shadows, I slap the knife clean out of her hand. Before she can even register who I am, that very same knife is engulfed in a burst of dense shadows, claw like hands reaching and grabbing at it from inside that whirlpool of darkness. A second later and those shadowy creatures pull away, leaving a mere stain of a silhouette on the carpet where the knife once was.Another weapon for my collection, I muse silently to myself, lifting the girls wrist high in the air. By the end of this I might just be able to start a museum- call it the gallery of traitors. I am sure it would earn quite the attention."So," I whisper quietly, intending to keep my voice low so as to not wake up the whole establishment. With a free hand, I bring one clawed nail to rest under her chin, slicing into her flesh. Underneath her skin, her heart flutters with the edges of panic. "What ever is a young lady such as yourself doing out here on a night like this with a silver knife, hmm? Shouldn't you be in bed?"Her silver eyes narrow under the hood. There is anger there, yes, but something more human too- nervousness, fear, an exploitable weakness. I suppose she is not just another mindless slave after all- which makes things all the more interesting.Why on earth would Azrael be sending conscious mortals to kill me?"I-" she says much too loudly, so I press my fingers firmly to her lips, giving her a solemn look. Behind their sockets, my eyes smoulder a deep red."Now, now," I purr, twisting her hand a little higher above her head. This time, a slight wince escapes that cool faade. A carnivorous smile splays across my face."Let us keep this candid, you and I. No need to wake up the whole tavern."I give her another smile. But the woman narrows her eyes further still, to the point they seem almost entirely closed- or perhaps she is trying to see into my soul, I am not quite sure yet. But her technique is all off."I could scream," she hisses, her voice prickling with distaste, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. "I could cry murder," she spits once more, prodding her clawed finger into my chest, but I catch her hand before she can touch me.All words of threat and no substance, I sigh inwardly to myself. Right now, the poor girl looks as though she is only running on fear. I intend to keep it that way."Oh darling," I grin, my fingers tightening around her now. Power buzzes through my palms, swamping us both. "Perhaps that might work on all your other little victims, but I am afraid if you think that will work just as well with me, then you would be sorely mistaken."With an uprush of cold air, the two of us are quickly consumed in darkness. For fear of her life, the woman clutches on to me, her fingers latched with a fervid terror around my waist. Perhaps on another occasion, if this were a vampire and not a mortal, I might have removed a finger for the sheer audacity, but for now I let it lie. After all, a bloody and wounded girl isn't exactly the most conducive of electing answers.
