Book of The Dead

Chapter 52: Cover

Chapter 52: Cover

"A Vampire?"

"It's hurtful that you haven't heard of us. We are the highest form of Undead. You're a Necromancer, aren't you?"

Yor narrowed her eyes as she challenged his lack of knowledge, but Tyron could only shrug helplessly. And continue to avert his eyes.

"Are you sure you won't put on any clothes? I'd appreciate it if you would…"

The Vampire laughed and drew a hand seductively down her chest.

"And why should I?" she said. "My flesh has been shaped to perfection. I have no reason to cover myself. Do you not appreciate my form?"

It wasn't that he didn't exactly, it was more he found it incredibly distracting. He couldn't afford to have his wits dulled by anything when dealing with these dark powers, let alone some perfectly formed…

"Ahem! Fine. I'll just keep my eyes on the roof."

He tried to gather himself. His neck was starting to hurt.

"So if I understand what you've said. You were a human, and were changed into… your present form by some form of ritual. And now, you are offering to do the same for me?"

"You should be honoured," Yor arched a delicate, dark brow at him. "Many Appeal to the Court, desperate for our approval, seeking to gain our blessing and join our ranks. Some are required to serve for many years before they are given the chance, others are never accepted. The less talented are often turned into thralls, that they may serve their betters for eternity as befitting their station."

Never ending slavery? The thought of it rubbed Tyron the wrong way, though he could see why some might accuse him of hypocrisy, considering his own profession. He didn't see raising someone's bones as a skeleton as remotely the same as enslaving them, however. What he had done to Dove? That… hit a little closer to home.

I'm going to release him, so that doesn't count, he told himself. He hasn't even asked me to set him free lately, so it can't be bothering him that much.

"I don't really see the need to change my race, though…" Tyron said honestly. "I'm sure being a Vampire has its upsides, but I have plans."

Anathema had proven to be extremely powerful for a sub-class, but having it pushed on him had certainly lowered his utility. He needed that third sub-class slot if he was going to cover for his weaknesses and increase his versatility.

Yor stared at him as if he were a misbehaving insect.

"We are offering you eternal life," she said, "you will never age, never grow old. Though this realm will fall to dust, trampled under the heel of the rift-kin in ten-thousand years' time, still you will endure."

She leaned forward to emphasise her words, which caused Tyron to have to lean back further to avoid… to keep himself focused. At this point, he was almost bent over at a right angle.

"But there must be significant drawbacks, am I right?" he pointed out. "Nothing given by the Unseen comes for free, there is always a cost, a counterbalance. You may not age, but what is the price you have to pay for the privilege?"

"You speak of cost in the face of immortality?" she sneered. "There are uncounted millions who would pay any price for that which I offer."

"You aren't talking to them," Tyron said, "you're talking to me."

Living forever might have tempted him severely under normal circumstances. Right here and now? He was under a death sentence, hunted by two Slayers who hopelessly outclassed him in every way. Even if he fled through the rifts and into other realms, there was no place he could go they wouldn't be able to reach. His mother was a celebrated mage by the standards of the entire empire, not just the western province. Even if the Abyss or Court were to try and hide him, he had little doubt she could track him down. He needed power right now, the prospect of not ageing for the next few months of his life meant less than nothing.

"You probably understand my circumstances a little," he said, trying to be reasonable, "if you've kept an eye on me as you said you have. I'm not interested in eternal life or any such thing. I'm interested in being a better Necromancer as quickly as I can."

The Vampire beheld him with her burning red gaze.

"Of course there are drawbacks to embracing my offer," she said, "though they are hardly worth mentioning. We may not live under the light of the sun, for one, and we must sustain ourselves with the blood of the living."

She smiled seductively and revealed her pointed fangs once again. They made so much more sense to Tyron all of a sudden.

"If you can bear to suffer such mild inconveniences, then you may have eternal life," she said in a mocking tone.

Living without the sun? He could certainly deal with that. He was a night owl before he'd even become a Necromancer. He had the Feat to boot. But "sustained on the blood of the living"?

"You drink blood?" he grimaced.

"Indeed," she said, "the pleasure is indescribable. The taste of life itself running down your throat." She shivered. "The food I enjoyed as a human simply does not compare."

"How do you even get… it? Blood… I mean."

"The realm of the Court has been perfectly adapted to suit our needs. No sunlight is suffered to touch the ground, and our needs are met by the chattel we keep. They are kept alive to offer up their essence to us when we desire it. Blood flows like a river in the Court, even the thirstiest do not want for succour."

The image she conjured… was hellish. A world of eternal night? Slaves kept solely for sustenance?

"That sounds… interesting," he said.

"It is a paradise of Undeath," she insisted. "The highest state one of our kind can hope to achieve. Do you desire to grub about on the ground, fiddling with corpses for the rest of your mortal span, then die a pitiful death? This is your chance to elevate yourself, to leap from the mud and into the highest echelons. Your remarkable skill with magick has drawn the eye of the Court, but only one member has decided to extend this offer. My Mistress risks much to give you this chance while you are so unproven, but she believes you will achieve great things, given the chance."

No doubt there was more to this offer than Yor was willing to say. The way she spoke of the Court intimated it was wonderful, filled with grand mages sharing their wisdom, yet he felt that was far from the case. He sensed that there were likely factions amongst the Vampires, given that this offer had been extended unilaterally by one member.

"I will have to respectfully decline your offer," he said formally. "I have no wish to cause offence, but I've no wish to change my race. Please convey my deep regards to your mistress."

Yor arched a delicate brow.

“Refusal?” she said it as if she’d never heard the word before, “Such a rare treat. I hope, for your sake, that my Mistress is not insulted by you spurning her generosity. The chance to experience the Final Kiss is not offered to just anyone, and seldom more than once.”

At the mention of a kiss, Tyron flushed with embarrassment. Frankly, his neck was starting to hurt so much from his constant backward lean that arousal may well have been out of the question, no matter what the Vampire said, yet something in the way she said it sent a shiver down his spine.

“If you don’t mind then, I will end the ritual now,” he said, straightening his back and keeping his eyes resolutely latched onto his visitor’s.

Her eyes flickered with that maddened light, but she did not respond, only nodding her head graciously before she stepped back…

… into an artful pose that best showed off her stunning physique.

She did it so effortlessly, Tyron wasn’t sure she was even trying. Nevertheless, he swallowed in his suddenly dry mouth before he gathered himself and spoke the final words, ending the ritual.

At once, the candles blew out, the blood bubbled and hissed until it too had faded to nothing. The light in the room returned to normal once again, the ominous darkness and strange red hue lingered no more.

Tyron breathed a sigh of relief…

“Well that was exciting,” Yor mused, “but how does one quench one’s thirst in this realm?”

… then he yelped in surprise. As he did so, he stumbled out of the circle of protection he had created for himself on the floor.

“Y-y-you’re still here?” he stammered as he stared at the alluring form of the Undead before him.

She placed a hand on her chest as she feigned indignation.

“You would have me gone already? That is no way to treat a guest,” she tutted, “if you are to be part of the Court in the future, you will have to brush up on your etiquette.”

“But I thought… the ritual… shouldn’t you… go back?”

“Go back? When I finally have the chance to come out and play? I think not.”

She approached Tyron like a wolf, stalking towards him as he slowly backed away. Only when his shoulders thumped into the wall did he realise he didn’t have anywhere left to go. His mind spun as he tried to summon a spell to defend himself, but it was too late.

With speed that defied reality, Yor was upon him, a hand clamped over his mouth, the other gripped his own hand, her fingers interlacing with his. Those burning eyes stared deeply into his as she pressed herself against him.

“The Mistress suspected you might be reluctant to embrace her offer. In case of such an event, she requested that I remain, to ensure that her investment does not go to waste.”

She leaned closer still until her lips were beside his ear.

“That which the Court desires is seldom let go without a fight.”

Then she released him, stepping back smoothly and retreating three quick paces where she stopped and watched him appreciatively.

Tyron just goggled.

“So… you’re staying?” he said, still bewildered.

“Thank the sweet melons of mercy,” Dove spoke up once more. “No offense kid, but even a skull needs something nice to look at once in a while.”

“Dove…” Tyron said helplessly, “you don’t even have a dick anymore, how can you still be thinking with it?”

“It’s with me in spirit!” the once Summoner declared proudly. “My soul cannot be separated from its johnson, or its desire to ogle. Some things are fundamental to nature.”

“This is just great,” Tyron sighed as he massaged his brow to fight off the headache he felt coming on. “Can you at least put on some clothes?”

“Such a childish obsession. I have sculpted my form to perfection, yet you would have me cover it? For what reason? Your prudishness is of no concern to me.”

Clearly proud of her appearance, Yor showed little desire to do anything to cover up. Tyron needed to come at it from a different angle.

“The skull won’t stop perving on you unless you get dressed,” he stated.

“That is definitely true,” Dove confirmed.

Yor looked at the glowing sockets of the skull for a moment.

“Very well,” she sighed.