Underneath

Co-Authored with the author of the character der Tote; Takes place the night before "Whole"


AstaTheBroken hated winter.  It wasn’t the cold that bothered  her; she had always had a high tolerance for freezing temperatures, even when she had been human.  Snow, however, was a major annoyance.  Sure, it looked beautiful, for about five minutes.  But someone always has to ruin it.  She snorted in disgust as she passed a park.  Some jerk kid had run through it, marring the serene landscape with his stomping footprints.

Asta shook her head and lifted a thin black cigarette to her lips.  As she lit it, she smirked as she thought about the humor in it.  “You really can find anything on the grey market, if you know where to look-and you have the money to back it up.”  She breathed in the sweetly spiced smoke and held it in her lungs.  Vice had been her friend since she returned to the City; she didn’t have many friends left, otherwise.  The former members of Blackhaven wouldn’t trust her, and frankly, she wouldn’t trust them.  Her ex-companion barely existed on the physical plane when she had left after cracking under the strain of Astral’s escape from his mental prison; der Tote could have disappeared altogether for all she knew.  Half of her current clan had left without so much as a goodbye, an affront that Asta took personally.  They had made the decision for her.  True, her decision would have been the same; she knew her own feelings, even if she didn’t know his.  Even so, the insult weighed on her.  And, of course, her clan’s leader, Capadocious, had been attacked by the traitors and was resting, which effectively cut Asta off from the only vampire besides Mooncalf that she had seen as a surrogate sire.

She had been walking down the streets, brooding, when she heard the soothing velvet voice saying, “Welcome back.”

Asta turned to the source of the familiar voice, opening her mouth to reply to the greeting.  She wasn’t able to get any sound out of herself, and a look of panic crossed her face.  She’d lost control completely.  Panic turned into pain as Astral pushed her aside to take form.  Her body contorted and grew, tearing her clothing.  Within moments, the tall, broad form of the fallen seraph faced der Tote, his face openly communicating his hatred for the dead one.

“She doesn’t have anyone left but me.  She trusts me now.  Soon, she will be mine completely.”

Astral laughed. “Her strength wanes.  She took quite a beating, you know.  She doesn’t have any control over me anymore.  No thanks to you!”  Astral lunged at der Tote, his heavy fist swinging at the vampire.

--


Der Tote had always enjoyed winter.  The frigid temperatures and sometimes outright hostile weather were wonderful excuses to stay home and enjoy a good book (or perhaps just to laugh at the people running through the muck, not yet using that excuse).  As he’d gotten older, and grew into his vampiric abilities, winter became more enjoyable, as the cold never seemed to bother him, food became easier to find, and his own supernatural stealth left him amused when he failed to leave footprints in the snow.  And even a predator in the night could appreciate the simple Rockwellian joys of a fluffy white park with a snowman surrounded by a halo of little footprints.

He had just finished finding himself a meal, and was wandering the back alleys of the city when he heard her.  Standing in an alley, listening with sensitive ears, he recognized those near-silent footfalls, even after all the intervening years.  He’d heard rumors that Asta had awoken again.  He should have visited her by now, really, but he always managed to find some reason not to: Something to do, some business with someone else, even just plain old laziness; anything to avoid that awkward reunion, years after she’d abandoned him…or he’d abandoned her?  Even of that he wasn’t sure.  How do you greet your wife, when you’ve not seen her in over half a decade, when you’ve not tried to find her nor her to find you?  He sighed inwardly.  Well, he thought, may as well stop being a baby and bite the bullet.  Stepping out from the shadows, he said, “Welcome back.”

She turned at his voice, but something was wrong.  The other one was still there, too, and stronger than he had been before.  No, that wasn’t right.  Astral wasn’t stronger; Asta was weaker, like she’d given him more of herself than before.  Asta disappeared in a flash of panic, and Astral stepped bodily into the world, an image of demonic might, of rage and hatred.  Der Tote stood facing him, stunningly unimposing in his collared shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets, glaring at the demon through plastic-framed glasses.  “That welcome was for her,” he said, his voice sounding strangely unimpressed by the powerful horror before him, even annoyed.

“She doesn’t have anyone left but me,” Astral sneered.  “She trusts me now.  Soon, she will be completely mine.”  Enjoying the prospect of finally putting this uppity fledgling in its place, the demon laughed.  “Her strength wanes,” he taunted.  “She took quite a beating, you know.  She doesn’t have any control over me anymore.  No thanks to you!”

Der Tote sidestepped as the demon lunged, his large hammer-like fist missing the vampire’s head by less than an inch.  A second fist shot forward, aimed for his chest, but he caught it with both hands, softening the impact enough that his sneakers simply slid back along the asphalt, simply riding the inertia safely to its end.  Astral pressed the attack, driven to destroy the one who’d locked him helplessly in the recesses of Asta’s mind years ago, but der Tote cleanly avoided the blows, making good use of everything he’d learned from the city’s hidden guilds over the years.  Even as blow after blow failed to find its mark, though, the demon still forced the vampire back into the dark alleyway he’d come from.

“Release her,” der Tote demanded as his heel struck the brick wall behind him, “or I’ll do it for you.”

Astral laughed a deep, mirthless laugh.  “You won’t bottle me up again, dead one,” he replied, lunging again at the young vampire before him.  “I have the power now, and you’ve slept too long!”

Astral pulled back his fist, ready for the finishing blow, when der Tote’s right eye suddenly shone a bright, angry red.  The vampire jumped up and kicked off the wall behind him, pouncing straight at the demon’s chest and somehow, despite what physics would demand, the larger demon was tackled back through the air, eyes blazing with the same light that came from the vampire’s shining right eye.  By the time the two combatants hit the ground, Astral was gone, and pinned beneath der Tote was, instead, Asta the Broken.

---


That was not supposed to happen.  That SHOULD NOT have been able to happen!

Asta opened her amber eyes-BOTH amber eyes-and stared at der Tote.  A slight trickle of blood was oozing from the scars on her face.  Her features seemed softer, more fragile, more human, than they usually were.  Her eyebrows were arched in fear.

“I know what he’s trying to do,” she whispered.  “I need to get home before Astral wakes up again.  I have to tell….” Her voice trailed off, and she looked embarrassed.  “I have to get home.”

It was at that point she realized what position she was in.  When Astral took over her body, her clothes were torn through by the demon’s hulking form.  She was now lying naked on the cold pavement, beneath her ex-husband.  If nothing else, this would go down in history as one of AstaTheBroken’s most awkward moments.

---


“Ruhe, Ruhe,” he said, feeling the panic welling up from her.  “There’s nothing to fear.”

Der Tote’s face was the picture of serenity, a quiet and almost infectious calm, and his kind eyes were focused steadily on hers, his right eye once more glowing its faint pale white.  He’d done just as he’d done years before, when they first met.  Astral may have been imposing in the physical realm, but in the astral (ironically), der Tote ruled, and the demon had bound himself to the same rules mortal bodies and minds had to follow.  Astral was awake, he was aware, and he was pissed as all hell, but he was trapped in the deepest recesses of Asta’s subconscious, and there would be no escape for him while the vampire was watching.

“I’ve got him,” der Tote told her in a soothing voice, “and he’s not going anywhere.”  His eyes remained focused on hers, and he did his best to calm her down until her panic finally subsided…and he was finally able to notice for himself the position they were in.

---


“I need to get my…pile of useless rags,” she groaned.  Asta was not usually this inhibited.  Of course, even with the confidence given to her by the demon spirit, she still would not have exactly been comfortable walking through the City in the nude.  Adding to her uneasiness was the odd situation of needing her former lover’s protection to return safely to her home, a castle ruled by a lord they had once both despised.

“Um,” she said, timidly, “would you mind seeing if there’s anything salvageable over there that I can maybe cover myself up with? I’d prefer to stay here where no one can see me right now.”

---


Der Tote stood up and offered his hand to Asta, turning to look where the remains of her clothing had fallen.  They were somewhat far away for an inspection, but his keen eyes could tell right away her outfit was entirely destroyed.  Contrary to what the Incredible Hulk would have people believe, clothing doesn’t stand up to the sudden gain of even a couple hundred pounds of muscle…not even pants.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he said, taking off his gray collared overshirt and handing it to her.  “Here.”  He stood there wearing a dark T-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the cold winter air, regarding his clothing-challenged ex thoughtfully.  “So…from the top, then?”

---


"The top, huh?" she asked as she did up the buttons.  The shirt came down almost to her knees, and, even with der Tote's broader shoulders, she still could not do the top few buttons.  But at least she was decent, relatively speaking.

"I'm not sure what woke me," she said as they began to walk.  "I was drifting when something woke me.  Some kind of jolt.  I was hungry, and don't remember much of the first night.  The second night, I continued toward what I felt, what I knew woke me, Capadocious' return."  Even now, she still called him by his full name, part of her still respectful of her former leader, her almost-lover.

"I was pulled, and given a chance to satiate my bloodlust, get my revenge on this wretched City.  Which, as you can see by my weakness, did not turn out so well."

Her face darkened as she tried to hide her anger.  "The failure wore on many of my clanmates, and they trickled away.  I should have pushed to lead from the beginning.  Capadocious was more like a doting father than a war leader, and that's what we needed-a warlord.  I was too full of my own self-loathing to get into politics, and by the time I decided to change my mind, it was too late.  The clan had fallen from the inside.  I don't even know where Capadocious is.  He may have left the city, he may be asleep in his chambers, he may have buried himself like I did for all I know, I don't care."  From the passion behind her voice, it was apparent that a part of her still did.

Her tone lowered, as if she was trying to hide a secret, and she spoke fast.  "I know what he is going to do now.  Listen, quickly, before he wakes up.  I already feel him stirring, he won't be happy.  He's been trying to convince me to bond souls, but he doesn't want to bond, he wants me gone.  I have to beat him once and for all.  Will you help me?  Tomorrow, meet me in the Armory at one in the morning.  You'll be able to find it, I know you'll be able to sense it.  Please?"  Her human eyes pleaded with him.

Fallen

(Takes place shortly after the Epilogue to Third Incarnation)


“One more night.  I can do this one more night,” she told herself.  It had been getting harder and harder to pull the blood out, to force it to flow.  It had been more and more difficult a task to concentrate on the silent incantations of the internal magic.  It had been taking longer and longer to harden the blood all the way to the intricate, intimidating bone exoskeleton she had been wearing as armor.

When the ritual was finally over this night, AstaTheBroken stood panting.  If she were human, she would have been sweating profusely.  Her appearance had changed as of late.  Her eyes were sunken in, with bags underneath.  Her full lips almost had a dry look to them.  Her skin, once the texture of a perfect pearl, had taken on the roughness of freshly quarried granite.

Her comrades had fallen before her.  Her Lord had fallen twice.  Yet she fought on, as well as she could as of late.  Once again, as she had so many nights before, she performed the final bit of magic to summon her bone scythe.  The effort nearly made her keel over.  She was nauseous, and leaned on the staff of the scythe for support.  She closed her eyes and bowed her head.  “This will have to be the last night.  I’ve repaired enough arms to do things the traditional way tomorrow.”

Asta tiptoed out into twilight, sneaking to the hiding places where her enemies spent the day.  She was alone this time.  Her clanmates were either still asleep or in torpor.  For a little while, she was able to check names off of the hit list.  “Vex…check.  Seppuku…check.  nitenurse….check.  JennyThePirate…check.  ophelia…check.  Much easier when they’re still sleeping,” she thought to herself.

She stopped for a rest and squatted down, again supporting herself with her scythe.  She raised her hand to rub her forehead; she had a headache.  She was tired.

“Just for a moment.  I need to stop.  Just for a moment,” she pleaded with herself.  The effort of walking was enough to drain the last of her waning strength.

She was still sitting on the sidewalk when the attack came.  She was too slow, moved too sluggishly to react.  There were too many attackers to gain quarter; it was all she could do to block the blows.  It took her full concentration to raise the scythe to absorb some of the power of the Scrolls of Turning, but in the end, it would not be enough.

In the end, she was too weak, and too alone.

With a look of grim determination in his eyes, gmanusrex dealt the final blow, firing two Garlic Sprays.

A look of shock passed over Asta’s eyes.  The combined forces of Yggdrasil and the Republic of Ravenblack had done the impossible-something that had never before been accomplished in the City since its founding.  They had defeated AstaTheBroken on the battlefield.

As she fell, the terrible armor began to crumble.  Bits of it began to blow away in the wind, like dust.  Then, unexpectedly, she burst into deep crimson flames and billowing black smoke.

Within a few seconds, the smoke and fire had disappeared.  A great demon stood where Asta’s body had fallen.  He was over seven feet tall, with deep red reptilian skin.  His hair and armored pants were black; his eyes were blood red.  He had horns on his forehead and three pairs of black feathered wings on his back.  Astral.

He looked over at the attackers.  “Just because she can does not mean she will.  She will observe the custom and I will respect her wishes.”

The demon turned and walked away.  He would take her home.

Astral had to hurry.  The girl was merely unconscious, an aftereffect of the blood loss.  He did not want her to awaken in the streets.  Of course, there was the other problem, one that demons, like angels, did not have.  How would she keep her dignity when she came to?  She would come awake without her armor, or any other covering, and he could not fit into her clothes so she would be dressed.

He passed a bedding store on the way to the Castle.  It would do.  He smashed through the window, not caring about security, and took a satin sheet of deep purple form one of the display beds.  He felt her stirring inside.  She would come to soon.  He had to get her home.

Running out of the store, he jumped into the air and took flight straight at the castle.  Astral watched it grow in the distance.  He couldn’t leave the girl out here!  He pushed himself, six wings beating against the cold winter air.  The Castle loomed ahead.  Faster, faster!

He chose the closest tower to make his landing.  He threw open the curtains and landed without grace, covering his hulking form as quickly as possible.  The body underneath the sheet began to shrink.  The wings were sucked into the body.  The horns disappeared into the skull.  The broad shoulders narrowed, and the masculine figure began to take on a feminine quality.

Soon the form stilled.  After a few seconds of peace, it began to stir.

“Unnnnnhhh,” a woman’s voice groaned.  Her body was pressed against cold stone, but it was too smooth to be the sidewalk.  The events of that night ran through her mind.  The battle…the battle…she’d lost the battle!

“AAAAARRRRRRHHHH!” she screamed, slamming her fist into the floor.  She’d LOST!

She pulled the sheet off her head and stared blankly at the floor.  When she finally looked up, she found herself gazing up at Capadocious himself.

“I have failed you, my Lord!” she exclaimed, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks.

Same Old Song & Dance - Asta's true first encounter with V-Rex

For the months after she had stolen the demon’s essence as her own, Asta’s sleep had been dreamless.  Her connections to the psychic realms were almost completely severed.  Truth be told, she had welcomed the lack of intrusions.

Once she had moved into her Master’s home, however, things slowly started to change.  Although most days, her sleep was quiet, the occasional snapshots she experienced had begun to concern the vampire.

Most of the time, they were people and places she could not directly place.  She assumed that they were either her own memories from movies and television blended with the books she had been borrowing from the library or the affect of the magicks that she knew flowed through the mansion.
Still, she was not entirely comfortable with either situation.

It had been almost too quiet as of late.  Her Master’s requests were fewer and far between, no doubt because he had recently been purchased himself, to be another’s master.  She had obviously done something that displeased him, especially since he had not even noticed when she actively rebelled.

Of course, that brought on a whole new set of problems.  Her damnable human feelings had gotten in the way, and she was this close to apologizing for playing him the way he tried to play her.  He actually acted as if he was hurt, as if his plans for the evening did not include attempting to find the most convenient piece of tail.  It was not as if he was the type to be looking for a relationship, after all, not after the complaints he had about his previous one.

Being completely ignored made the stress of the dream snippets even worse.  An argument would be nice, preferably one culminating in furniture being thrown.  An assignment would be a nice distraction, even if it was just giving poor Squishy another bath.  Other pursuits would also be nice, but that would just be the pent up lust of a eunuch demon trying to make its way to the forefront.

Meditation would have seemed a good solution, except Asta was never the type to sit still for very long.  Instead, each night after feeding, barring quick stops at the taverns to watch for gossip, Asta repeated the katas she had studied as a child.

Over and over she went through the motions.  [i]Seisan[/i], the first one she had learned through studying the [i]Isshinryu[/i] style.  Block, punch. Block, punch. Block, punch, block.  It became the complete opposite of the brute force tactics she preferred as a vampire.  Block, punch, punch, kick, punch.  The best offense was a good offense, as far as she was concerned; pain was an inconvenience, at worst.  Ridge-hand, shuto, check.

After a few dozen times through the set, her mind was calm and her body somewhat less tense.  She made her way back to the bedroom, climbing up a tree and leaping through the window she had left open when she jumped out that evening.  She hated being watched by the servants; let them think of her as strange.

Struck by a sudden impulse, Asta checked the two swords before getting ready for bed.  She had found them in Capadocious’ armory this most recent time around.  She had restored them herself.  The shorter sword, Dance, was light and easy to strike with.  Her left arm was like a viper, quick and sharp, but the sword’s balance made it quite easy to shift gears and parry an attack as well.  Song was longer and much heavier.  It was as much a club as it was a blade, and had proven deadly in Asta’s powerful right hand.

Her fingers traced over the leather on the grips.  Song’s hilt had been gilded, so Asta had replaced the original leather with a warm brown.  Dance’s silver hilt had been wrapped in the darkest black Asta could find.  Save for Grief, the heavy flail that Asta had carried since her days in BlackHaven, Song and Dance were her truest allies.

On a whim, the vampire laid the swords at the end of her bed.  Perhaps she was a little bit lonely, after all.

----


Amadeo Cellini easily dodged the wooden sword aiming for his head.  He feinted.  His opponent caught it too late and fell off balance.  Amadeo rammed the knight with his shield, and the man went down.  Amadeo stood over the man, wooden sword pointed at his neck.  The man sighed and got up to join the others.

“Now try to work together,”Amadeo said as he put down his shield and drew a second wooden sword.  He gestured at two other men.  They nodded to each other and began the charge.  This should be easy.

Amadeo moved as if the two swords were extensions of his arms.  With the grace of a dancer, he dodged, thrusted, and parried, matching the two other knights move for move.  Every time they took the offensive, he positioned himself so that the two would risk striking each other if they missed him.  Soon, the heavy shields became a burden and the men began to tire.  Although he had just sparred each of them, and wore his own heavy suit of Maximilian armor, Amadeo showed no signs of slowing.  A well-placed kick to the shield knocked one of his opponents over.  He struck at the other with a strong backhand, pushing the sword against the weak part of the grip.  Another strike and the sword went flying.

“Enough.” Cellini barked.  He dropped the swords to the ground and took off his helm.  His long brown hair was stuck to his head and neck with sweat.  His nostrils flared, the only sign that he, too, was getting tired, making his nose look even more crooked.

“You know what is expected of you.  You won’t leave this fortress until you can beat me.  If you wish to leave, tonight is your chance; after that, we expect your full commitment to the Order.”

A slight middle-aged man dressed in black came out the door to join them.  Father Matteo had been the fourth son of a merchant.  While one of his brothers had become one of the king’s personal guard, he had always been smaller and more studious.  The church had been a natural fit.

“I was watching you work.  It was a good first day.” Cellini raised an eyebrow at the priest’s words.  “Compared to some of the other recruit classes, it was quite good.  Not even a broken nose this time!”

“Squire Joseph will help you with your armor and bring you to the hall for dinner.  Good training.”

Amadeo sighed with exasperation.  Father Joseph was always too kind to the recruits.  “Remember,” he called after the group, “tomorrow we start the hard work.  Breaking you down to build you back up.”

The priest laughed.  “Always so rough with the boys,” he said, shaking his head.  His accent was heavy.  “After dinner, come find me.  I need to speak with you.”


Amadeo Cellini met Father Matteo in his office after a satisfying dinner of roast pork.  He had bathed and dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, his long hair tied back with a leather thong.

“How may I be of service?” he asked the priest, his own speech thick with an Italian accent.

“There are more pressing concerns than the training of new recruits, I’m afraid.”  Father Matteo’s voice had lost its jovial tones.  “The Order has chosen you for a different mission.”

Cellini frowned.  That the quality of the young knights had vastly improved under his tutelage would be an understatement.  What could possibly be more important than training more soldiers to fight for the name of the Lord?

“You are our best swordsman, of that there is no doubt.  The young men you have trained have all performed far better than anyone would have expected.  Because of that, Fortescue will be taking your place until you return.  He knows your methods best: train for strength and endurance, train to fight unarmed before taking up the sword.  He will ‘break them down to build them back up’ just as you would.”

The priest slid a letter to Cellini.  The words were written in Latin; it was from the Church.

“Long story short, there are rumors of a powerful blind vampire.  He has last been spotted in the area of Devon in Britain, but we have heard of him before.  He has been notoriously difficult to kill.”

“He’s blind. How hard could it be?”

“He is still a vampire.  Even a crippled vampire would be harder to kill than most men.  His other senses may be stronger, or it may well just be part of his contract with the devil.”

Cellini nodded.  “How will I know him?”

“He is taller than most men.  The blasphemer has been dressed as a priest, according to that letter, though he has had other disguises in the past.  His dark hair is constant in all the letters.”  Father Matteo pawed through a pile of letters on the side of his desk as he continued.  “He also tends to favor colors that blend with the shadows, and, ah! Here it is: ‘It may be the moon playing tricks, but his skin is not the color of any man, living or dead, but that of the dark clouds of a brewing storm.’ Poetic, isn’t it?”

The knight laughed.  A huge, blind, grey vampire.  If he were anyone else, he would have thought the entire thing was a hoax.  But he was not anyone else.  He was Amadeo Cellini, Demonbane, First Knight of the Order of the Scarlet Cross, General of the Black Guard, Slayer of the Incubus of Le Mans, Killer of the Lamia of Florence, Cerberus’ Misfortune, Warrior of Light.  It was just another day.


Cellini had worked his way north, and, once reaching England, he began to set out on the vampire’s trail.  He visited a few small villages in Devonshire, but no one had seen his quarry.  He was about to give up when a merchant he met on the road pointed him in the direction of Bath.

He arrived at the city a little after noon.  Nothing seemed to be amiss.  The fields did not appear to have been cursed, the plague had not ravished the streets.  Most of the inhabitants seemed to be thriving; he would have been just as suspicious of a complete lack of sickness as he would an epidemic.  It might as well have been another dead end, but the knight decided to wait until nightfall.

Cellini stopped at a tavern to get some food and a bed.  As he ate his stew, he overheard the gossip of a group of young women.

“I don’t know, myself. He always keeps his face down.  Probably trying to hide some kind of scar.”

“Maybe he got kicked by a mule when he was a boy!”

“No, I’m telling you, he was in the storm last night too, the wind blew his hood off. He’s not that bad looking.”

“‘Not that bad?’ I’m convinced.”

“Isn’t he a monk, anyway?  I don’t know why you three even bother.”

The conversation moved back to more mundane rumors, but the knight was convinced that he needed to stay the night.  He wolfed down his dinner and asked to be shown to a room.

Just as he did every night, Amadeo Cellini knelt in prayer at the foot of the bed.  “Lord, please give me the strength to complete the mission and slay the beast.  Use me as your right hand to clear the world of the wicked and bring light to the darkness.  I am your true servant.”

He laid his armor out and pulled the two swords from his belt.  Canto was the longer and heavier of the two swords, his right hand.  The brown leather grip was worn, but comfortable.  In the hands of most warriors, the sword would have been little more than a glorified club, forged for bashing armor, but Cellini would use it to cut as well as any shortsword.  In his left hand, he wielded the lightweight Ballare, the perfect weapon for a quick jab as well as a speedy block.  He made the sign of the cross over the two weapons and crawled into the covers.


Amadeo Cellini had dressed in his full armor, swords in their places of honor at his sides.  Even though he wore a metal exoskeleton, he moved quietly.  Years of training and practice, years of being the best at what he did, had drilled a sense of stealth into him.  Even still, the vampire spotted him first.

“Are you looking for something?” it asked.

Cellini turned with a start.  “I thought you were supposed to be blind!”

“Am I now?  I can never keep track of the rumors.”

Cellini drew his swords, guarding his stance.  In all honesty, he felt bad that he would have had to kill a cripple, even if it was a vampire.  He would not feel guilty tonight.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Cellini’s answer was a bloodthirsty scream as he charged.  He sprinted toward the vampire.  When he reached his opponent, the knight threw a quick feinting jab toward the vile creature’s face.  He hoped to find a weakness to exploit.  The vampire calmly backed out of the way.  Cellini attempted a few quick strikes with both swords, but the vampire fluidly dodged each one.

The knight smiled to himself.  He had seen this strategy before; in fact, it was his favorite to use against the trainees.  Let them tire themselves out, then come in for the easy blow.  He would not lose so easily.

Cellini calmed his actions, moving with purpose.  He had all night.  Slowly he circled his prey, waiting for it to make the wrong move.

The vampire sighed.  This one was experienced.  Good thing he had no plans in particular for this night.  He drew his longsword, hidden under his cloak, and faced the challenger.

Cellini licked his lips under his helm.  This match would be fun.  The two circled each other for some time, each looking for the opening that the other refused to give.  Then, the vampire brought his sword down.

Cellini easily blocked the sword with [i]Ballare[/i], letting the vampire’s sword glance away as he swung [i]Canto[/i] toward the vampire’s uncovered side.  The vampire was far quicker than Cellini had expected, and the clash of metal against metal rang into the night.

For hours, the master swordsmen battled, neither giving quarter.  Unfortunately, when one fighter is human and the other gifted with the power of darkness, there could only be one outcome.

“I’m sorry I have to do this, but I really must be going,” the vampire said.  The knight was getting sloppy; he was tiring.

Instead of hitting with the sword, the vampire moved with superhuman speed to tackle the holy warrior.  The vampire was a full head taller than Cellini and heavier than he looked.  The man fell back to the ground, pinned under the formidable weight of the vampire.  [i]Ballare[/i] fell out of his hand upon impact; a large grey hand held down Cellini’s right arm, neutralizing the heavy sword.

The vampire picked up the fallen sword with his free hand.  It was far less clumsy than his longsword.  His face expressionless, he brought the shortsword down on the knight.

The last thing Cellini saw before he was taken by the light was a pair of monstrous green eyes.

---


Thud!

The impact of her ass on the cold floor woke Asta from her fitful slumber. The swords had fallen on the floor next to her and the blankets were in a tangled heap next to her.

Her head swam as she tried to make sense of the dream. It had seemed like a memory more than a regular dream. The details were so vivid, from the weight of the armor to the taste of the gristly stew. She looked down at her hands. They stung as if she had been the one experiencing the bite of metal against metal, not the man in her dream.

She sighed as she checked the clock. Twilight, might as well get up now. She untangled the blankets, making her bed in a fog, still thinking about the dream. Even as a human, no dream had ever felt so real before.

The two swords were lying on the floor where they had landed. She picked them up and was hit with the vision. She was Amadeo Cellini. She had been others, too, all given the same task, the task that she would have been given, had the demon not stolen its way into her body. She had been sent back to continue the mission as it had always been, and sent to this city in particular to rid it of the vampire menace.

Asta fell to her knees, eyes open to what she was. In the battle of the two great titans, she was one of the greatest casualties yet. She was a trophy to be thrown in the face of the servants of the Light.

She was a failure.

Epilogue to Third Incarnation

A few weeks passed.  Soon after his presence back in the City was known, Capadocious and The Legacy were under attack.  He and his leaders bore the brunt of the attack, leaving the fledgling clan to fight without them.  Asta, bloodthirsty as she had become, joined in the war parties, both as a member of her house, the Knights of Alamut, and as an extra hand when the other houses, like the Childer of Khorne, had need.  Like many of her comrades, she had lost a lot of blood; unlike many of her enemies, she did not care.

The two weeks without Capadocious' full presence was rough on her, though she rarely let it show.  He had been her favorite target in the past, but it was different when he was attacked by another's sword.  She was excited for this night, his first night back from torpor, and the first night where they would battle together as allies, not enemies.

Like most nights since she came back, Asta spent the time not fighting in the armory.  She had an affinity for medieval weapons, cultivated during her time as BlackHaven Coven's second-in-command and self-proclaimed quartermaster.  She found peace in repairing the ancient weaponry, making the arms and the armor usable again.  This night, she happened upon a particularly fine tunic of black chainmail that fit her so well that she thought that perhaps she had left it there eons ago. 

Not that she would need it, not yet.  While a lot of her blood had been spilt on the streets, she still had enough for her nightly ritual.  She was considering the amount of times she would still be able to go without donning traditional armor when Capadocious walked in.

"Asta, I wanted to speak with you," he said, as he greeted her with the embrace that a father gives to a favored daughter.  "Who is your master vampire?"

"I have no master.  I have never had a master," she replied, not betraying any emotion in her voice, her face, or her body.

"That's good.  I respect you, you know, you and your dedication.  I would be honored if you would let me be your sire."

A few beats of silence passed before she would reply.  "I will need to think about it.  I have always been my own master.  I hope you understand."

He nodded.  "Let me know when you have made your decision."  He left on those words.

A few moments after he left, when she could sense no other presence, she consulted Astral in her mind.  Like the other conversations she had had with the beast within, this one took place with the speed of thought, not sound.

"What do you think about that?  How would that change us?"

"About what?  Adopting a sire?"

"What else?"

"Your pretending you don't care?"

She groaned with exasperation, like the teenager she was when her body was frozen.

"It won't affect my presence, if that's what you mean.  Remember, I WAS Death.  I had experience with vampires in the past."

"How so?  Most of the childer I've seen are subject to their master vampire."

"That's because they were human before.  You aren't.  You haven't been human for some time.  If you were to choose to be sired, except being at his call, your powers would not diminish.  I will not diminish."

Her logical, frugal side took over.  "Well, it would certainly be cheaper than teleporting!"  The more emotional part of her psyche began to be swayed.  "He needs me anyway.  I was, at one time, the most feared warrior in the city!  I would be a much better bodyguard if I could be summoned."

"He gave you time. Use that time. Think about it."

Time.  Time!  The plans for the night's attack had to be almost completed.  It was time.

She emerged from the armory.  The servants were waiting.  They were almost like zombies, having lost most of their humanity from the repetitive feedings.  They were mere cattle now.

She looked at them.  Both carried the cat-o-nine-tails with barbed ends that she had instructed them to use on the night of her first battle.  Wordlessly, she beckoned them to follow.  Wordlessly, they did.

She led them down the dark corridor to the dusty room she had chosen to perform the ritual.  After they had entered, she locked the door behind her.  

Asta clenched her fists and brought them up to her face, examining the veins.  Yes, there was still more than enough blood tonight.  Without betraying any expression, she stripped off her clothes and stood in the center of the room, arms out to the sides.

With a silent signal, they began.  Each strike pierced her skin, and the blood began to flow in tiny rivers down her body, the same way it did before every attack.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the blood.  The rivers, which had been flowing chaotically with the pull of gravity, began to take on patterns.  The flow stopped, almost as if caught at an invisible canyon, at her thighs above her knees.  The flow around her chest covered her in a liquid, form-fitting breastplate.  More blood pooled to the left side than the right, running thickly over her heart.  The strange pattern continued down her arms, stopping at the wrists.  The blood in her hair did not drip a single drop down her face.  Soon, her face, her lower legs, and her right shoulder were the only places on her body where the blood was not pouring out. The wretches knew that this was the point to stop.  One of them glanced at the other and raised an eyebrow, which was answered with a shrug.  They did not know whether it hurt her.  Truth be told, neither did she.

Asta continued to concentrate with her eyes closed.  The red blood slowly turned brown, hardening into scabs.  She breathed in, still a favorite tactic of hers when absolute focus was necessary.  Her eyes closed tighter, squinting in a grimace, and she let out a soft grunt.  The blood began to heal further, from brown, to light brown, to a pinkish grey, and finally to a bright white.  Bone.

Her body, from her shoulders to her knees, now was covered in a mobile exoskeleton of bone armor.  A spiked plate protected her left shoulder, while her right was left bare for maximum movement.  Both arms were covered with segmented plates to just above the wrist.  It was enough protection to keep her blood from most danger, while allowing her full access to it herself.  The blood that had run through her hair had hardened into a terrible horned helm.  She was barefoot, and preferred to fight that way.  While she was petite, and obviously feminine, in this armor, she resembled Astral more than she did herself.

She brought her left wrist to her mouth and bit.  Hard.  Blood spurted freely, and she arced her wrist over her head in a smooth, practiced motion.  The blood never hit the floor; instead, it hardened in that arc, instantly becoming the great bone scythe that was her preferred weapon.

Asta turned to her pile of clothes and picked up the two small knives that she always carried with her.  She handed them to the two servants who plunged them into her back at an angle, sticking them into the bone armor at the same spot where she would release her wings.  It was necessary to have an escape route, even if she did not want to use it, and becoming aerial was the easiest way to outrun any hostiles.

Her eyes met those of the two humans.  Soundlessly, one took up her clothes, to be placed in her quarters, and the other opened the door for her.  She walked with purpose to the hall, where the other warriors were waiting.

Third Incarnation - Asta's return to the land of the living

(Note: This story takes place about 6 months before "Whole")

Drifting….twilight…swirling blackness…calm. Not peace, but calm.

Limbo.

The war inside was decided. The war-or peace-outside did not matter.

Days passed. Or millennia. What did it matter? What is time?

Intangible. Neither hot, nor cold. Body frozen in the grasp of Mother Earth. Dirt and debris may have piled overhead. Rock may have eroded. It did not matter. There was only here, and here was not moving. Here would not move. It was not to move. Ever.

The mind? Nowhere. Or everywhere. What did it matter? What is the mind, without the soul?
And there was no soul, or death would have come to claim its victim to the depths of Hell long, long ago.

Warrior, hero, savior, lover.

Betrayer.

Spy, degenerate, scourge, liar.

Alone.

Who was betrayed? Not principle, not honor. What happens when the prey becomes the predator? Who protects the weak? 

Alliances were made and were broken. They were still being made and broken. It was not to be concerned.

No breath. It was not necessary. Nothing was necessary. Or was everything? It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

It was calm. Not peace, but calm. Limbo.

Awake.

Something snapped. What snapped? Move. Hunger. There is hunger. Hunger mattered.

Slowly the creature slipped through the packed dirt and clay. Small, almost undetectable writhing shifted the mud, the stones, and the debris.

A bony, skeletal hand reached the surface first. The fingers moved gracefully, as the figure below contemplated the air that it touched for the first time in eons.

It was not long before the body, if it could be called that, unearthed itself. Mummified skin clung to bone, and had the appearance of being brittle. Bones creaked upon bone with each motion. Rags of once-luxurious clothing clung to the figure. Hair was matted to the skull with dirt and blood. One eye, the left, was white and dead. The other eye…the right eye…gave off an ever-so-slight evil red glow.

It was not human, though it was, once. No longer. 

The thin, crackling lips pulled back. It may have been a smile, it may have been a grimace. Pearl-white teeth, with razor-sharp fangs, glinted in the moonlight.

It still could not be immediately identified whether the body was man or woman, male or female. That does not matter here, and it did not matter in that instant to the owner of the body, for it only wanted one thing.

Sustenance. Blood.

A raccoon scurried at the figure's feet. With lightning reflexes, it snatched the unlucky creature up and, with one smooth motion, drained the animal of its lifeblood. The mangled remnants were unceremoniously dropped on the ground.

The small shot of red life was enough to bring back some of the mind. Hollow nostrils sniffed the air. That way. The figure stalked deliberately, moving from its lonely place of rest towards the city.

The number left dead that first night was impossible to count. All of them, from the lowliest animal to the vampire hunter that met his match were left mangled, bodies discarded as one would discard the wrappings of a sandwich.


"How appropriate," the creature thought to itself, as it stalked into the outskirts of the city, glancing at the street name. Jaded. 

The streetlights illuminated the figure, as she (and she was very obviously a she) crept down the road. Like a sponge, her body had grown and fleshed out with each drop of blood she had drunk. 

Tattered rags hung off her body, barely decent, leaving no hint to the imagination. The creeper was short, with a top-heavy hourglass figure. Her mother-of-pearl skin was streaked with dirt and gore. Her lips, now full, were pursed with determination. She wore no shoes. She did not care.

Grimy hands reached into the folds of the rags that had once been clothing, and pulled out two small knife blades. With inhuman flexibility, she reached behind her back and made two deep parallel cuts at her shoulder blades.

The blood gushed out in arches, but froze in midair, instead of hitting the ground. Spurts like tree branches flowed out of the arches, again, freezing. The blood hardened, first to bone, then to feathers of black. 

The creeper stretched, bringing her wings to their full span. Then, she licked the drops of her own blood off of the blades, returning them to their hiding place within the folds of her rags. She flexed her body, powerful muscles under the womanly curves, and then pushed off.

The first rays of the sun were starting to spark over the horizon. Merely a
nuisance to an elder vampire such as herself. It would take more than a few
seconds of exposure to end one as powerful as she.

Still, what point would there be in staying out? Anything worth mentioning
happens at night, anyway.

She chose a hidden corner of an attic in a tall church to hide. She chuckled to
herself at the irony.

Between piles of boxes covered in years' worth of dust and cobwebs, she wrapped
her wings around herself and slept.

The following twilight she awoke.  The hunger was still there, and it needed to be fed.  As the blood flowed, her thoughts became more coherent.

"I wonder if we should pay him a visit. No, you remember what happened last time, now I am in charge. But what could it hurt? He was the reason you were brought down. You were left with me. I am all you have right now. You are always with me, but there has to be more. More, yes, but not there, you need to find a place where you are free to be as powerful as you really are. Yes, as powerful as I really am. You will have your revenge-our revenge. Yes, the City will learn from its mist---I am covered in dirt! Your clothes are nothing but rags too, you know, don't you think we should do something about that? Yes, I suppose I can't walk around like this, can I?"

She stalked in the dark until she found a place that might work.  An old house, flowers growing willy-nilly in the front yard, a rocking chair on the porch, and some paint just starting to peel.  Her ears twitched.  Upstairs, the owner of the house slept.  Downstairs, Asta lifted the window open and snuck in.

She crept upstairs, sniffing the air.  Yes, this would be the perfect place.  Quietly, she stalked into the bedroom.

The stench of death was heavy long before Asta could do her work.  The cancer had grown too big, too unmanageable.  Too bad the family didn't care.  The old woman slept fitfully, moaning in her sleep.  The end was near anyway.  Might as well make it now.  Quietly, Asta bent toward the old woman's neck, and gingerly bit down, draining her lifeblood.  When the crone was dead, Asta lifted her head and spat in disgust.  The blood had already lost much of its vitality, and had already begun to taste rotten.  She pricked her own finger on her fang, and dripped a stream of blood over where her bitemarks were.  She licked her own finger to seal the wound, then rubbed the blood over the old woman's.  The marks healed, without leaving a scar.

The dirty deed finished, Asta calmly walked downstairs to the bathroom.  She drew a warm bath, generously using the woman's rose-sented bath salts.

She stripped off the rags and lay down in the bath.  She soaked in the perfumed water for a while, thinking....remembering...her eyes closed....

She was crawling in her dream.  The totaled car was behind her, and she could almost make it to the road, if only she could stand.  She'd lost too much blood for that.  The gash in her head, over her eye, blinding her on the right side, was flowing freely.  Too freely.  Some ribs were broken, who knew what else, with all the bruises and scratches.  Someone had to be on the road tonight.  If only she could get out of the ditch and back to the road!  Someone, anyone! Her vision became clouded...she would never make it...

The next part of the dream was new. It was not the searing pain and the clearing of her vision that she remembered.  It was....it was....

"You have disobeyed me for the last time!" Lucifer bellowed.  The muscular demon standing before him refused to bow his head. "I was banished, but I had my own kingdom. You have nowhere to go! You will be nothing but a mist on Earth, and that is where you will go, for all time!" The second demon's eyes widened in panic. He was not expecting such a punishment. Two Hands went to grab him from either side, but the powerful Greater Demon was too quick. He struck them both, and they were down. "Astral! I will banish you myself!" With a wave of Lucifer's hand, Astral's vision clouded.

This was not right.  He was not this small.  This weak!  This---who are you calling weak?  I'm not weak! Get out!

She pushed. But she wasn't strong enough. She couldn't keep him out. She felt her body began to give way. She was dying.  She felt the searing pain and shuddering. She should have been gone. But she was trapped.  They both were, for eternity, trapped together.

"I didn't know that part. You didn't pay attention. You never told me! Why should I tell you-you are a weak little girl with weak human emotions-look what you did to us!  You know I am stronger this time. How many here can claim to be my equal?!?"

She stood from the bath, water dripping in rivulets down her clean, white skin.  She combed her long dark blonde hair.  It was too long.  She twisted it in her left hand, and grabbed one of her twin blades out of the pile of rags with her right.  With one swoop of the blade the hair was gone, and she now sported a less stylish but more serviceable bob.  She grabbed the woman's towel and dried off. Disgusted by the rags, she opted for the old woman's pink plush robe and wrapped herself in it, tucking the two knives into the pockets.  Then she stepped back out into the streets.
"I smell like mothballs."

AstaTheBroken complained as the snuck down the streets, keeping to the shadows.

"Pink is not your color," the inner voice replied.

She chuckled. Pink had NEVER been her color. To keep from being confused for one of the pinko neutrals, she needed to get changed.

"Well, at least the shopping district is still there."

Thankfully, no one was around this late at night. She would look suspicious anyway, but in a plush bathrobe, she was even more out of place.

Even though she had plenty of reserves in her bank account, she had no desire to go to her vault. She had been trained as a thief, and wanted to use that training.

Stealthily, she ducked under the awning of a promising shop. She brought her hand up to her full lips and pierced the tip of her finger with a fang. Deep red blood dripped from the tiny wound, and a thin, needle-like stalactite formed. She pointed the think spike into the lock and tinkered around, her tongue sticking out and curling onto her upper lip.

The deadbolt clicked, and Asta withdrew her finger, the spike now shaped into a key. With a flick of her finger, the blood melted back into her skin. She looked back and forth, ensuring that she wasn't seen, and walked into the store.

She dropped the pink robe to the floor and stalked through the racks to find more suitable clothing. She had forsaken the old, Victorian style she had been known for, with its bodices and flowing gowns, and instead chose an outfit that would be much more mobile. 

When she walked out of the store, she was dressed in a slightly more appropriate miniskirt and black lace bra, with fishnet stockings and a fishnet shirt. She topped the outfit off with heavy boots, a thick leather belt, and a cropped leather jacket, all black. She tossed a bottle in the air and tucked it into the camouflage messenger bag that now hung at her hip. Red hair dye. Now for step two.

She pulled one of her knives out of the messenger bag and stared at her reflection in a storefront window. Carefully, she feathered her bangs and her hair into a funky, angular bob. She streaked the dye through her hair in highlights and made her way to a stream. Once the dye had taken, she rinsed it through the cold running water. She shook the water from her head, running her hands through her hair and onto her now-bare neck. There was no hair left to hide her angular nose, her full lips, or her soft brown eye behind (though she did keep the hair at an angle to keep her scarred skin and blood-red right eye safe from view). She stared at her reflection in the water, and fluttered her long eyelashes.

Much better. Now she was at least presentable.

She spun on her heels and walked away....
The night was still only half done. Now that she at least had some semblance of presentability, she continued down the streets, listening carefully to the rumors.

Upon hearing the story of Lord Galamushi, Astral's voice scoffed in her head. "Just because he CAN attack, doesn't mean he should. But who am I to say? My honor is what got me here in the first place."

"Your honor?" Asta thought back.

"Yes. You'd think like that, wouldn't you?" Asta winced. "You think that because of what I am I have no honor? We are more alike than you think, little girl.

"You should know the full story, if we are going to remain as bound together as we are."

In the space of a few seconds, Astral transferred the full story from his mind into hers.

Before Lucifer had fallen, I was one of the highest choir of angels, what you know as a Seraph. You humans had only believed there was one Angel of Death. Even at that time, there were so many creatures that there were a quite a few of us to manage the job. We silenced the bodies and carried the spirits of the creatures to the next plane. While not all creatures have "souls," as you know them as, they do have spirits. We were their destroyers and their guides.

The story as you know it is mostly correct. Lucifer felt that he could do a better job than God, and amassed an army of us in his rebellion. He, and all of us, were thrown out into Hell. There were a few times during those battles where I questioned his wisdom, but I did not question enough to believe that he was wrong.

Since my particular job was so specialized, I remained what I was. Oh, yes. Do you think that God is the only one deciding who dies now? Do you think the Angels are the only guides? There was still work for me to do. And, being one of the few Seraphim who had followed Lucifer to his "Kingdom," if it can be called that, I was given a position of power.

There were those who questioned Lucifer's leadership, especially since we were sent to the torment of Hell, which is just as bad for us as humans, you know. Do you think I enjoyed leading human souls to succumb to such violent deaths? It was my JOB. It was what I was CREATED for!

Anyway.

The question of Lucifer's leadership ability began to reach its head. Another Greater Demon, as we are now called, felt that, at least, he could do no worse, and possibly better. Those of us felt convinced that we were all being punished, but Lucifer still got what he wanted. His own Kingdom. What would be the worst torment for him? If he were left powerless, with no domain over any of us anymore.

I gave myself to the cause of...of Nameless, for I will not divulge his name, even to you. Not that I do not trust you, but I made a promise that I would never compromise him.

Of course, Lucifer had his spies, and, of course, we were found out. But he never did learn the name of the Greater Demon that was leading us. I refused to tell him. After eons of injecting my comments, my questions, my misgivings, about Lucifer's plans and his leadership, I was ejected from my post, to remain a powerless ghost on Earth.

He miscalculated, throwing me too close to a dying girl. You were too weak, too close to death, to fight me off. I didn't have any second thoughts. It was a body, and it would be mine. How was I to know that, even though you couldn't defend yourself, you would hold your own? How was I to know that you would be as strong-willed as I? How was I to know that, because of my presence, the Angel who should have taken you never came?

I am sorry for what I have put you through. I am sorry for what you may suffer in the future. But I am not sorry that I have survived, and I am not sorry that there is still a chance that the Prince of Darkness may still get what is coming to him! 

I might not be able to fight any longer, but the others can, because I did not give any names. Could I have kept my post? Yes, if I had submit. But, like you, my honor is all I have.

She was impressed. Asta had only seen Astral as a parasite during her days as a fledgling vampire. Now, he was her partner. She should have been angry, should have again tried to push him away, like she did so many times before, but she felt a kinship between them. She would never have her body to herself again, and she may suffer through Death, if it ever did come to claim her. But at least she would not suffer alone.

And now, she knew, she had the power to make everyone else suffer with her.

But, still, what had awoken her? She felt drawn to the castle, many blocks away. It would take a while to walk it, and she did not want to go the roundabout way to and from her vault. Besides, who knew if the sprint potions in it would still be any good.

On her walk to the castle, where she somehow knew she would find at least a few answers to her questions, she found the answer to one that went unasked.

"Nice," she said. A blood red Yamaha motorcycle. "Let's hope I can still work one of these things." She once again bit her finger, allowing the blood to harden into a think spike, which she inserted into the ignition. After tinkering around a few seconds, she turned her finger and the motorcycle started. This time, however, she gave her finger a flick, and the key of bone broke off. She zipped the leather jacket, revved the engine a few times, and took off down the streets.

She let out an animalistic growl, feeling the pleasure of the wind blowing on her newly bare neck. Though breathing was not necessary, she felt the urge to suck in the cold, crisp air. Her lungs expanded, and she felt the strain of the leather against her breasts. She drove with abandon, speeding down the streets, her latent psychic senses feeling for the presence of any cops. There were none.

Now there was nothing but the quiet stretch of city roads between her and the castle of Clan Capadocious

She came to a stop at the front door of the castle, looked up at its tall towers, and sped around to the back.  The dungeon entrance was more comfortable.  Plus, having been gone from the city for some time, she was not sure if the vampires within the main halls would welcome her return.

She slid through a window and landed on the floor in a catlike crouch.  It was dark, but her night vision was well-developed, so she did not need to wait for her eyes to adjust.

As she made her way up the levels to the castle, she smelled an odd burning.  Magic.

"A powerful summoning spell was used here not long ago," Astral spoke to her in her head.  Asta frowned.  Who were they trying to summon with such strong magic?

She crept onward.  The castle was quiet and mostly empty.  Some of the doors she passed were dusty from lack of use.  When she left the clan to form das Haus, so long ago, Clan Capadocious was fighting off the Shadow Court, but the Clan seemed like it would never topple.  Their Lord, their Prince, would never have let that happen.  Unless...

The thoughts came together as she reached the Great Hall and opened one of the side doors a crack from the inside.  A few dozen vampires were in the hall.  Some were talking and embracing as if at a reunion.  Some stood back, wary and suspicious.  And, toward the head of the hall, a small group of vampires she did not recognize were talking in hushed tones to a tall, imposing figure.  He nodded, taking in the information they were passing on.

"Capadocious was the one who left! The summoning spell..." she spun back around into the hallway.  "They needed to summon CAP!"

He had been a fixture in the city.  He had proclaimed his rule when she was a fledgling; he had been chosen by the other vampires in the City as Prince-chosen over her!-in a fair election; he had still held claim to the City as she faded into herself; he was there when she buried herself in the forest to never awake again.

If he, then, had chosen a similar end that she had, it would have taken powerful magic indeed to wake him.  She could only come up with two logical reasons why she was woken. 

She wasn't summoned, herself.  She knew that much-if she'd been summoned as well, there would be some familiar face, other than Cap.  He could have summoned her, but of all the vampires that have been in his army, she did not stand out.  Perhaps she stood out in his memories as a powerful ENEMY, but that wouldn't make sense either.

The only way she could have been awoken was if either the spell was TOO strong, and she was inadvertently woken as a side effect, or if Capadocious' mere presence in the city again shook the heart of the city enough to literally raise the dead.  And, since he would be the epicenter of the magic, it was enough to conclude that, in either case, he was the reason she had been awoken.

But now that she was here...should she go on?  None of the other vampires, save Capadocious, knew her well, if at all.  Would she be attacked if she entered the hall?  Would they immediately dismiss her as a spy?  Would her word be enough to convince them that she was neither enemy nor spy?  If it came to it, would Capadocious remember her well enough to come to her defense?  But, on the other hand...

Where else COULD she go?

"Not back."  AstaTheBroken spoke the words out loud.  No, not back.

She opened the side door of the Hall and stepped in.  She closed the door quietly, not drawing any attention to herself.  Her eyes darted around the room, hoping no one would notice her or question her presence.  Once she had assured herself that she was at least safe, her eyes settled on Capadocious.

Strange that her fondest memories of him were in battle, not as allies, but as enemy combatants, trading blows in that intimate, passionate dance, looking for an opening for the sword to penetrate.  Although she had said otherwise, at times, she had a respect for him as a warrior, and she knew that, at one time, he, in turn, respected her.  But, watching him as he listened to his core group of advisors, she realized something that some part of her had known all along.

She was, and always had been, in love with Capadocious.

She tensed as the unconscious knowledge about herself moved to her consciousness.  "What's wrong? I don't see anyone preparing to attack you. They haven't even NOTICED you yet!" the ever-present Astral exclaimed.

"Nothing," she replied to the voice in her head.  "Just a pathetic schoolgirl crush.  I have control of this."  If she had been speaking to an actual companion, she would have spat in anger at herself.  As it was, she leaned against the wall, waiting to see if she would be approached, praying that he would be the one to greet her, promising herself that she would not let the all-too-human emotions get in her way.