a/n: so like idek this is suddenly trying to be a serious fic and it's probably getting caught in that terrible place in between real fic and crack fic. lol. sorry. :/


Olivia's carriage came to a clattering stop at the edge of the forest clearing.

The sky was darkly overcast to the point of threatening storm, there was a nip in the air, and the howls of dying werewolves made for an excellent string quartet stand-in.

It was a wonderful day for a tea party.

As Olivia floated out of her carriage and into the pleasant glade, her lineage scampered about laying down checkered picnic clothes, setting up sunshades, and arranging a table, chairs, and fine porcelain tea set.

About twenty feet away, Thalia and her cathars fought for their lives. Silver-edged steel bit into thick sinew and claws ripped open chainmail and ribcage together. A scouting foray too near the encroaching Kessig border had turned into a bloodbath.

Thalia threw herself to the side as a werewolf, its body twisted by Emrakul's influence, charged towards her. She tried to pivot to reengage, but her foot slipped on the gore-slicked grass. She hit the ground hard. In a bare instant, the monster was on her.

Saint Traft's power coursing through her veins was a sensation Thalia was becoming accustomed to.

Saint Traft's power exploding out of her in a nova of white-blue fire was probably never going to be comfortable.

On the sidelines, Olivia watched the tentacled werewolf do its best imitation of a vampire as it flew across the entire length of the clearing, thrown by the explosion. Olivia hummed to herself. Flying werewolves seemed like wonderful sport. Maybe what Lurenbraum needed more than super high thread count silk sheets was a row of catapults on top of the outer wall…

As if she heard the quiet hum, Thalia whipped her head around to stare at Olivia with glowing eyes that leaked white fire flecked with blue. Her mouth was half open, her teeth were barred in a snarl. Fresh blood of twisted werewolves soaked her surcoat, dying it a vivid reddish-blue.

Even at a distance of twenty feet, Thalia smelled delicious.

Olivia waved. "Don't mind me," she called out. "I'm just enjoying the show!"

With a violent force, Thalia turned her head back towards the battle at hand. She let out a wordless shout and threw herself back into the melee, coming to the aid of one of her cathars who had been on the brink of being beheaded by a particularly large corrupted werewolf.

All around, the battle raged.

The situation was grim.

Victims of an ambush, the cathars were slowly losing against the howlpack. Casualties had been heavy in the initial chaos and they were now clearly outnumbered and outmatched.

Thalia let out another shout, calling for a rally, but there was little left to rally. Moment by moment, the werewolves pushed the cathars back, herding them into a tiny circle, surrounded by monstrous mutated beasts.

The cathars were fighting for their lives, but they weren't fighting hard enough.

Thalia focused on the feeling of Traft's fire in her veins. She thought about grabbing that fire and pulling, drawing more and more from the Saint's geist until it felt like her skin was too small to hold it all. She thought about her sword-arm moving faster than it ever had before, with enough force to split a wolf from crown to tail.

She thought about pushing herself harder than she ever had before and she fought on.

A falling feather, buffeted by the turbulent air, was the first sign of salvation.

Sigarda hit the werewolves like a ton of bricks.

As she scythed through the pack, Saint Traft's smug voice floated through Thalia's mind.

"It seems I am still favored by angels."

A short distance away, seated at the tea table, Olivia pouted. She'd been enjoying the fight. Using angels was cheating.

A terrified vampire approached her. "What sort of tea would you like, mistress?" he asked.

The Lady of Lurenbraum frowned. Decisions, decisions… She pointed at a dying werewolf that was vainly trying to drag its legless torso away from the carnage, leaving a trail of ichorous blood in its wake. "Some of that, I think." The vampire scampered away to get Olivia her drink.

Meanwhile, with the aid of Sigarda, the cathars were putting the corrupted howlpack to rout. The last kill went to a young cathar, one of Thalia's lieutenants. He caught a werewolf in the back with an expertly thrown lance as the monster fled.

There were no celebratory cheers. Instead, the remaining cathars staggered into something resembling a defensive formation. The cathars with shields stood at the front and those without guarded the flanks.

Olivia, seated at a small table, gave Thalia a polite, lady-like wave and a toothy smile. Her teeth were stained a lurid reddish-blue, the color of the blood of eldrazi-touched horrors. It sent an involuntary shiver down Thalia's back. The air itself seemed to chill.

"Well-met, Heir of Saint Traft," Olivia called out. "I'm so glad you could join me for tea." Olivia gestured to indicate the empty seat across the table from her, place set with a saucer and empty teacup. "Please, have a seat," she said lightly. She glanced up at Sigarda. "And tell your pet chicken to stop scowling. The poor dear's face might get stuck like that."

Thalia looked up to the angel, who was, indeed, scowling.

Could Sigarda defeat Olivia? With a glance, Thalia took stock of her forces. There were too few who remained without serious injury and many needed immediate medical attention. Sigarda was fresh and Thalia knew that she herself could still fight, but, even if they could defend themselves from Olivia's entire entourage – to say nothing of the Voldaren progenitor herself – the delay would cost too many lives.

But.

If the tales were true, Olivia was nothing if not capricious. Maybe…

"This is a bad time for a tea," Thalia said. "It's going to rain soon."

Olivia tilted her head to the side, as if she were flummoxed. "Nonsense. This is the perfect time for a tea."

Out of the corner of her eye, Thalia watched as Olivia's vampires spread out, moving to form a loose circle around her cathars.

When Olivia smiled, she didn't show teeth. She didn't need to. "I hope you weren't planning on leaving," she said. "That would be rude." Daintily, holding out her pinky finger, she raised her bloody teacup to her lips and took a sip.

"Safe passage," Thalia said, words tumbling out of her mouth. "Safe passage for me and my men. They leave now, I'll stay for tea."

"Hurt a guest? Why I never!" Olivia sounded genuinely offended – Thalia didn't believe it in the least. Olivia had a very bad habit of hurting guests. With a wave of her hand though, Olivia recalled her thugs. She then gestured to the empty seat at the table before sparing Sigarda one last glance.

The angel, who had never stopped scowling, looked to have half a mind to stand and fight.

Olivia would have none of it. "You know, Sigarda," she said conversationally. "The Heir of Saint Traft didn't include you in her petition." Olivia's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Shoo."

It was in that moment, as Thalia approached the table and her cathars and Sigarda retreated, that she looked at her life, looked at her choices, and realized she had many regrets.