Vampiris Sancti: The Elf (43 page)

She eyed his
plain apparel with interest because his black outfit with white
accents was not an outfit she had seen on the commuters. His
clothing jogged a sudden memory and she understood his reluctant
response to her charm for this was one of the creatures of the cult
called religion. She found the pastime strange, though not solely
human, for she had met similar devout beings upon many worlds. It
wasn’t their spirituality that perplexed her as much as the
consistent lapse of observance, which seemed common throughout the
Reveal.

She had noticed
these human priests when wandering about their temples whose beauty
had attracted her attention. From the grandly ornamental to the
modestly appointed all expressed their belief with wonderful art.
The structures, though they reminded her of those of the Lazulul
temples devoted to their sacred cat, were of a more restrained and
refined nature. Zyre decided that the human world was just like
demonic ones—filled with scepticism until life was difficult then
they expected the sudden existence of a god who cared. The young
man endured her curious gaze until green eyes connected with brown
and she watched while droplets of gold exploded across the iris as
his pupils expanded with unacknowledged longings.

“Actions of the
nefarious?” he queried.

Her infectious
smile made the corner of his twitch as she explained. “To steal
like Goblins do.”

If pressed she
might also have admitted as Elves were also wont to do if they
couldn’t convince another to serve their interests. The young man
seemed amused by her conviction and continued the conversation.

“Goblins so you
say and have you met any of these nefarious thieves?”

Zyre grinned
since she couldn’t work out if he was being rude or just the usual
obtuse human. These creatures could see the actuality of their
world if they just opened their eyes and looked, but instead they
resided in a mire of platitudes. Exclaiming to each other in
mystified tones, stranger than fiction, coincidence, mysterious
ways, the safety latch of their minds firmly in place in case
reality slipped through the cracks.

“I’ve met more
than I care to,” she chided his dig at her reality with one of her
own. “Which tis more than you can say about the one you serve.”

The young man
didn’t take offence and instead looked amused at her assertion.

“I’m just a
student and perhaps you have met him, but didn’t realise it. Maybe
he organised payment of your bus fare.”

Zyre frowned as
she recollected. “No, I would have noticed a deity buying a
ticket.”

The student of
a human god allowed a soft chuckle at her sincere reply. “Is it not
faith to take a chance on a stranger?”

Zyre stood
briskly for she could feel the change in the atmosphere as they had
now entered an area with many Vampires. While she could not see
their Houses she still knew that they were close. She gave the
young man a parting smile as if explaining the situation to a
child.

“Faith tis what
gets you killed, so what I trust is what I see about me.”

As the bus
pulled away from the curb Zyre stood on the sidewalk waiting for
the window containing the young man to pass by her. As his solemn
face sought hers she put her finger to her lips and slowly
dissolved out of view of his startled eyes.

Satisfied that
she had brought enough mischief into the life of an innocent
bystander she reappeared under the leafy canopy of green in the
garden of the House of Veraign. Knowing it was too early for the
Vampires to rise and not wishing to bother Zhismi she went looking
for the cosiest spot—usually inhabited by the cat. It was here
amongst the vibrant life of the garden that she would replenish her
strength. While Elves were fey and cats should have nine lives
there was a time when each must die. This time it was her companion
that ran out time. Instead of life Zyre could smell the cloying
stench of evil upon the air as it clogged her mind and filled her
soul with the dark border of grief. Death had her look past the
delicate blooms of colour, the gentle sway of the leaves, the
trembling branches, down to the rich dark earth, and there she
discovered the mangled body of her friend.

The cat was not
merely dead, it had not expired from natural or accidental causes
as the poor beast had been eviscerated in a frenzied attack. Zyre
knelt beside the shredded fur as the scents of blood, entrails, and
death intermingled upon the air with the remnants of the
perpetrator. She expected the energy of the attack to grease the
atmosphere with the primal incoherence of the Revenant, but instead
she found the calculated centre of a being very much in control.
Questioned names flitted through her mind, was it Estienne—jealous
of her association with Vryn? Was Florian still angry about cat
hair? Was it a Varkja sent to follow her and instead, disturbing an
angry cat? Was this punishment by the human deity for mocking one
of his?

Grief had her
sit extremely still under the canopy the remains merely inches from
her huddled body as she lost herself in the precise emotion she
needed to avoid. Live or die—fate was just a turn of the wheel and
not the business of an Elf. She sat trying to remove herself from
it all, the people, the world, the Martyc, but all she found were
the emotions that tied everyone else together. It didn’t matter
that she was magical, that she was beautiful, that she could travel
a universe, the loss of a friend was a loss and it tore into her as
the action intended. The sun moved across the sky and she
remembered the kindness of a stranger paying for her bus fare. He
knew she held herself away from his faith, had no intention of
joining him, yet his belief was not in the person but the act. He
had decided who he was, stayed with that in the face of scepticism
and she held onto the memory until the edges of the Despair floated
into the shimmering dust to settle upon the fading rays of the run.
She was Zyre—an Elf and better still she was magical, which meant
not only had she means to discover to the truth but the capacity to
exact revenge.

“Did you saw
see this? Did you let it happen and dare to follow me?”

The question
thrown at the purple, the being that had been hiding just out of
reach, was a dangerous challenge made by a creature willing to
ignore the boundaries of Sere. She could feel it move away and
determined to find out what happened Zyre looked around the
carefully prepared garden. She wanted any red flowers for what she
sought, what she needed to know required that she did something
expressly forbidden upon her world. Zyre was not a creature who
applied much consideration to rules; it wasn’t that she believed
herself above them as much as they didn’t impinge upon her thoughts
very often. The disregard of this particular edict was a conscious
decision because a spate of poisoning upon her world had the Elders
ban using cytelja to look for a presence. The cytelja didn’t allow
the magical creature to view the events of the past, but it could
reveal the exact essence left behind by any who was in the vicinity
when an action of extreme energy had occurred.

She searched
amongst the garden beds as the sun lowered in the sky readying some
blooms to close when the dark reigned. She walked past arrangements
of yellow, white, violet, and orange blooms while ignoring the
beauty they offered. The searched ended when she discovered rose
bushes standing proudly against the green backdrop of lawn. They
met her requirements as they were the correct colour and they
remained open to the night air. She examined the carefully pruned
shape showing a mop of red as their vivid colour blazed atop the
single stem trunk. She relieved several bushes of flowers until she
had an armful and she carried the dazzling blooms back to the site
of death. The act of cytelja had been banned in the magical realm
for several valid reasons. It was nearly impossible to measure the
correct dosage, which often poisoned the user. It had also become
an addiction amongst the young, especially the surely Gnomes who
due to their combative natures tended to rebel strongly. As one of
the less blessed creatures of their realm they sought an altered
reality more readily than those that struggled to maintain their
precarious hold upon any reality.

Zyre carefully
plucked the petals off each flower until she had a soft pile in
front of her and she stopped, not to contemplate the action she was
about to take, but to remember the exact ritual. She had never
employed the cytelja before as Elves were born powerful enough to
amuse themselves for a lifetime and her knowledge of this forbidden
act was down to the rhyme sung when a child.

When red meets
red, in velvet crush,

When breath
meets air of ruby rush,

A taste, a
taste, reality is rid,

What once was
there, no longer hid.

She sang
sweetly under her breath as she picked up the stalk of one of the
roses and carefully pierced the tip of her finger to watch the rich
red droplets fall upon the petals. The flowers shivered at the
touch of her blood and sparkling with energy not of their world
they absorbed it until their veins glimmered with magical life. She
gingerly gathered up the rest crushing them between her palms until
delicate tendrils of mist escaped and she inhaled the red vapour
until her emerald eyes became the unfathomable black of a
Martyc.

Zyre had no
idea of how much or long she was to absorb the vapour, so she held
her breath until her head became heavy and the world spun her
adrift from reality. The mass fell from her fingers and she slowly
sank onto her side while viewing the disarray before her from a
tilt as life became blurred between past and present. She felt the
cat sleeping in her favourite spot with her tail across her nose as
she rested within the safety of her own garden. The bleak cloud of
the approaching preternatural presence filled her senses burning
the back of her throat as the cold fingers of calculated action
coated her blood with acid.

It took all her
effort not to be flung past the dominating auras into space and she
struggled to remain at the death scene. Fragments floated beyond
the dense life and death struggle that permeated the atmosphere and
there she found the being that would have remained unknown. She
followed the wisps until she came to the intent of this creature
for it was as black as the heart that manifested the desire and it
was here that she found Galt.

He didn’t leave
bold strikes upon the atmosphere like a demon because his was not
the honest response of rage as this was revenge fuelled by a
reckless ego. Zyre couldn’t read his thoughts nor see him in a
physical sense as her impressions were from the impact of emotions
and actions that coloured the environment. The Vampire left his
mark and his objective was a personal message that she couldn’t
fail to understand. This was him ensuring she knew to leave the
Tyro alone or else he would hurt those she cared about, only the
Aunsin was about to be undone by his own bastardry. Zyre had known
evil before, it existed in many realms, and if the Vampire had
bothered to investigate the Reveal he would have learned that those
who threatened Elves often wound up with all their attention. The
whimsical creature of the magical realm, the one that would walk
away from a war without looking back—if provoked— was also the one
who instigated the downfall of others. Where Empires had toppled
and powerful creatures discovered themselves in a mire of
unexpected turmoil closer examination would reveal that the Elf was
often the one pulling out the card that caused the house to tumble.
Her face pressed against the red velvet of discovery and her voice
was thick with rage.

“Galt...” her
whisper fell upon the petals, “your end comes.”

The green of
the foliage blended into a tapestry as she lost consciousness, a
woodland Elf laid upon the earth under the care of the life that
gave her strength. Her last thoughts floated into the atmosphere as
Zyre made the promise and purple trembled in the breeze.

Cartoc—The
Ornament of Danger

The magical
realm didn’t have institutionalised protection as their world
tended to apply as needed and if there was no need then there was
no construct. If this world were to have warriors, then Fairies
would be the ones to fit this description for while Gnomes enjoyed
a melee they did it for the sheer enjoyment of the physical
altercation. It was the Fairy with their fractured, fragile spirit
who was the true defender of their world and its peculiar peoples.
This being rarely left their own domain and barely associated with
others of their kind who defended the magical on or off world.
Cartoc, the word could put a shiver down even the silver spine of a
Varkja, were military units that existed only for completion of
their goal. They rivalled the Lazulul for dedication with their
lack of concern for their own safety as foolhardy as Raiders. The
Cartoc would set out to complete their duty and if feasible to
return home as quickly as possible.

The major issue
with a Cartoc was never the ability to complete a task because once
pointed to a target the Fairy would obtain an unnatural lucidity
and focus that would last as long as there was an objective. Once
it had been fulfilled they would return to the mercy of their
schizoid paranoia causing the dissolution of the unit into chaos
and the hapless survivor could find themselves abandoned in the
middle of a hostile universe. Those assigned to a Cartoc often
never returned and if they did they were unable to function in a
rational manner for many years. They would be overcome by the harsh
reality of an unleashed brutality that once extinguished left an
empty vessel, beautiful, static, and subject to the viral nature of
suicide. The Cartoc had no use for inter-realm politics,
friendships, or ties. Their lives were a balancing act upon the
fine wire of sanity that was habitually tipped into turmoil by the
demands of their world.