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.