Chapter 4 - Interlude - The Master
Volkihar Keep, 30th of Last Seed, 4E 201
A terrified scream echoed through the drafty corridors of the keep. He listened to it for a long second as it died out, and cherished the sound of the unbridled fear of the human kine. One of the others must have procured a new thrall. The first few days were always so sweet with the screams. He would have to see about adding another thrall to his own stable again. His other thralls had grown weary and compliant; they no longer provided the pleasure he craved. The three he had collected in the last few months always obeyed his demands and submitted to his torments now, without complaint; just the dead-eyed look of lost hope. They had become boring.
Another scream. He licked his lips. Yes, definitely another thrall soon. Or two.
He threw the book he had been reading back on his dresser. “Life After Death: Incredible Secrets Revealed”, by Felari-Ko. It was pure nonsense of course. Anyone who had ever truly experienced the world knew the only valid path to immortality was through the transformation inherent in Sanguinare Vampiris. This afterlife nonsense spouted by the author was rubbish. Savenhome, or whatever these Nords called it, was obviously a lie propagated by the priests, just like in his own homeland.
He had been ‘alive’ for over 400 years since being given the deathly gift of becoming a pure-blooded Volkihar vampire from Lord Harkon. That was true life after death.
He rose from his seat and paced toward the main hall. He was too agitated to read now, excited as he was by the prospect of a new thrall, and his current choice of reading material certainly left much to be desired. Perhaps he just needed a good meal. His thralls could at least provide that, even if the meal was not laced with the sweet spice of absolute terror.
He paced to the main hall, filled with other vampires, though only a few pure bloods. They were engaged in the standard debauched revels that constituted daily life in the keep. Uncivilized to be sure, but then again, they were not pure-bloods. Another member of the court pushed through the double doors; one of his own. His child. Not a pure-blood either for only a few could pass on that gift, but a vampire nonetheless. Menien had been with him for quite a long time now, since a few years after the end of the Third Era. Loyalty was not generally a trait practiced by vampires, but Menien had proven reliable. He even allowed the lesser vampire to speak on occasion.
Menien had paused to look around the room and finally noticed him. With a longing glance at the feasting table, Menien immediately advanced toward him, stopping in front of him, waiting for leave to continue. He delayed a few moments as Menien stood at attention, and snatched a choice delicacy from the feasting table, to the cry of consternation by the one who had been about to grab the morsel. He ignored that one. Lesser vampire indeed. With exaggerated facial expressions and little moans of pleasure, he made certain to very obviously enjoy his morsel.
It wouldn’t do to allow too much laxity in one’s subordinates, even if they had proven their loyalty, but he was curious why Menien had returned to the Keep sooner than the schedule had suggested for return. Curiosity won over asserting control over the other and he waved his hand at the other, “You may speak.”
“Master, I have news. The one that you thought lost all those years ago has been discovered. Gaspard Renelle was sighted in the Nord city of Whiterun no more than a week ago. He is…he is apparently running with the Companions now.” Menien finished and stood at attention, silent once more.
He was taken aback at that. He had not expected word of his lost child. Not now after so long. Not wishing to show anything to show emotion that the other masters of the court could use against him he declared, “Werewolves. Well that is a very interesting bit of news indeed. Very good Menien. Very good. You may feast.”
The other vampire left his side for the feasting table as he wandered back out of the main hall. All thoughts of feasting and finding new thralls were pushed from his mind. He stopped in front of a lit brazier. Gaspard. Oh, I have you now. You will not escape this time. I swear this by the lord of Coldharbour Himself.
He sliced a claw across his palm and squeezed, his fist dripping bright blood over the flame to seal the pact. The flame seemed to dance in a wavy pattern as it greedily ate his blood. Suddenly the flame flared high; his hand singed while he still held it over the brazier. He ignored the pain. The pact had been accepted by Molag Bal.
He would have to spend some time on this conundrum. Gaspard had once delivered him an insult so dire that a suitable repayment must be devised and executed. No, he would not see Gaspard dead. Not yet. First he would send others to watch Gaspard; maybe assault the traitor on occasion. Probe his weaknesses. Gaspard always did care too much for the human cattle. Yes, that was it. He would find whichever humans Gaspard currently cared about, or perhaps werewolves? Strange, that. No matter though, for he would torture them while Gaspard watched, knowing failure for being unable to protect those he loved. As Gaspard had not been able to protect those he loved 200 years ago. He relished the chance to see the look on Gaspard’s face as he slowly ended the life of the human cattle.
Then he would see Gaspard Renelle dead. Dead and dust.
Chapter 4
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And yes the game is afoot.
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