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.