Sorin jolts when he feels a knock on his shoulder. He tries to swallow, but finds his mouth dry. The cold early morning sunlight stings his eyes, he blinks rapidly before they adjust. He rises from the table and leans back in his seat, stretching, moaning and yawning. He rubs his pounding temples.
He looks to see Remilia staring him down with daggers shooting from her eyes. "Good morning, my lady," Sorin says as cordially as his current state will allow.
"What is that?!" Remilia points to a half-empty bottle on the table.
Sorin looks at it, "Mother, I do believe that is a bottle with liquid in it," Sorin says mockingly.
"It's whiskey!" Remilia snaps.
"And?" Sorin says with growing displeasure.
"You're a drunkard!" She nearly screams.
She's a sharp one, Sorin thinks derisively, "How can you not be a drunkard in this country?" Sorin shoots back, not particularly caring if he was being insulting or not.
"How can we rely on a drunkard for protection?" She asks while giving a critical eye.
Funny how she seems to forget the healing spell I used last night. "Healing spells also cover hangovers," Sorin says while he puts his words into practice.
"Oh really?"
"Absolutely," Sorin responds, while rising from his chair. His mouth is no longer dry, his temples have subsided and his eyes are no longer bloodshot.
"Well then explain this!" She picks up a flask from the table. Sorin's eyes widen in horror. "There's blood in it."
Sorin's shock passes momentarily, and he dashes and snatches the flask away. "Alright," he says strapping it to his waist. "It's pigs blood."
"I thought vampires could only drank human blood, and couldn't get intoxicated."
Sorin rolls his eyes, "Well that leads to the conclusion that…" He twirls his hands while Remilia ponders the situation.
"You're not a vampire."
"Yes." Is it really this hard to figure out? At least we're going places, Sorin reflects impatiently.
"But you're not human either…"
Sorin nods.
"That means that you're a dhampyr." Her eyes widen at the realisation. "By the Angels… I though your kind were only a legend!"
"It's very hard to produce my kind. You have to possess to be gifted with White Magic at the time of the transformation. You must then survive the transformation, and the vampire who mistakenly turned you will likely kill you during the process once he realises what you are. I was turned by my grandfather, Lord Edgar Markov, shortly after I completed my training. No one thought I'd resist the process, no dhampyr has ever been produced by the bite of a vampire lord, never mind the most powerful and oldest in the land. I was disposed off by being dumped in a nearby river."
"Why are not in a Church uniform?"
"I returned to Thraben, I was tried and the Church found me tainted, they said it was only a matter of time before the transformation was complete."
"Has it?" Remilia asks guardedly.
"No, this is as far as it has gotten."
Remilia stares into his amber eyes, Sorin meets her gaze, before staring towards the door to the bed chamber, where the Avacyn has just emerged.
"Your Grace," Sorin says, taking off his hat, placing it over his chest and bowing.
"Good morning, Sorin," Avacyn replies. She notices the whiskey bottle, Sorin remains impassive. "How are you feeling?" she asks, Sorin notes what he suspects to be fake innocuousness.
"I'm very well, thank you." She knows the ways of the Court well, Sorin muses.
Avacyn smiles sweetly.
"Care for some breakfast?" Sorin says in an attempt to divert the situation.
"Oh, I'd love some, thank you. Remilia, be a dear and go to the cellar," she orders with a that same disarming smile she just used on Sorin.
"Of course princess."
"The door is over there," Sorin points to a door on the opposite side to the bed chamber. Remilia shuffles off.
Once she behind the door, Avacyn turns a steely gaze to Sorin. "Why didn't you tell us that you're a dhampyr?" she asks forcefully. How much of that did conversation with Remilia did she hear? Sorin asks himself.
Sorin sits back down the in the chair he rose from. "I had my reasons."
"They were?"
"Not many people would accept me once they know what I am."
"You thought that by bringing me as far as Thraben would allow you to show yourself as still being human in spirit?"
He nods
"Then what?"
"I'd melt back into anonymity, you'd forget me, or at least remember as that noble warrior who saved you from the vampires when all else seemed lost."
"How romantic!" Avacyn half-shrieks. "But unnecessary. You see unlike most, I learned the truth about vampires. True vampires are susceptible to mental manipulation from their sire and lord. If you were a true vampire, I'd already be transformed," she says in a rather more serious tone. Sorin nods his affirmation."Besides, I'd hate to think that my saviour would go unrewarded."
"How so?" How long has Remilia been down there? Sorin wonders, his eyes wandering to the door.
"Oh, she's just making sure that I have the best of what's there; after all I am a princess," she says with a cheeky smile. How'd she guess what I was thinking? "So, as to your reward. Since dhampyrs and their sires rarely get along and the sire can't influence you like a normal vampire, I'd say that a Royal Pardon is in order. Also a title, and an estate perhaps. But you already have that… Sir Markov."
Sorin gasps.
"I am well aware of your story, though what of Lord Edgar Markov?"
"He's the vampire that changed me, and he has already turned my father."
"Well, Sir Markov, it seems that you are the last living scion of House Markov, you shall inherit all incomes and land entailed to your new title."
"I'm not sure the nobility will take to well to that." I've never been one for their vapid frivolities anyway.
"Unfortunately they have little choice, the law states that property passes from to the eldest living, or non-vampiric, child." We hear the door creaking, and Remilia emerges from the cellar with some food in her arms.
Sorin rises from his chair and takes the food and begins preparing it. Meanwhile he listens to Remilia and Avacyn talking in hushed tones. His enhanced hearing can pick them up fairly well. He notes Remilia's hesitation to trust him, while Avacyn argues in his favour. Mostly on pragmatic grounds that all his actions have been for their benefit. And that he isn't technically a vampire.
One particular sentence caught his attention. "The way he's acting is like he's trying to get our guard down," Remilia says.
Sorin raises an eyebrow. Remilia responds, "He acts like a gentleman."
"What are you implying?"
"I'm implying that he is trying to accommodate us as best he can given the circumstances."
"Exactly-"
Sorin wanders to the table with cups and cutlery, and sets it down. "I'm sorry did I interrupt something?" he asks.
"No," Remilia responds with a saccharine smile. Sorin doesn't notice Avacyn rolling her eyes.
He returns and dishes up three plates and sets them on the table. "What do you intend to do, Sorin?" Avacyn asks.
"First, get you some better clothes and tend to the dead. Second, make for the nearest village, the local bailiff is a personal friend of mine."
"He should have handed you in on sight!" Remilia says, rather shocked.
"He's under constant pressure to keep his village safe from vampires, werewolves and undead. He was willing to take any help he could get."
"Once there, what then?" Avacyn asks.
"We rest for the night and move onto Thraben. You'll be returned home, safe and sound, by the day after tomorrow, should the Angels allow it," Sorin says.
"If we don't?" Remilia asks.
He removes two daggers from there sheaths and hands them to Avacyn and Remilia. "I swear that I anything should happen to either of you; my life is forfeit."
"I'll hold you to your word," Avacyn says with considerable weight in her voice.
Sorin nods and fetches a pitcher of ale.
After the meal is consumed and cleaned up, the three make their way back to the Royal Caravan. The two young ladies mumble and mutter the whole time, Sorin ignores it for the most part. They were still bickering over whether he was trustworthy or not. Though, Sorin can't really blame them. But he did wonder when they'd stop arguing about it. If he were in the white uniforms of the Church they would be swooning for a peck on the cheek from him. Truth be told, he didn't care if they trusted him, he wished they'd stop bickering incessantly about it. Human blood was distasteful to him, not only because he can't stand the thought of drinking it, but also because the flavour makes him wretch.
"Stop," Sorin says rather suddenly and quite sharply. "Get down." Sorin and the young ladies dropped to their hunkers.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Remilia snaps at Sorin. He quickly clamps a hand around her mouth.
"Ssshhh." The three hear voices floating gently through the air.
"What are they saying?" Avacyn asks. Sorin removes his hand
Sorin strains his hearing for a second, "They're looting the caravan."
Remilia looks absolutely horrified. "How dare they!"
"I think the question is more, are they bandits or peasants looking for a little extra coin," Sorin says. "Wait here, keep quiet, don't follow until I say so." Sorin stands up and walks away. Avacyn and Remilia remain hunkered down and listen as best they can.
For the first while the voices don't change, that's before a shout, a someone speaking softly and reassuringly. Then more shouting… then the screaming begins, and clangs of metal on metal…
A little while after that Sorin returns with his clothes slightly blood-splattered. "Bandits," is all he says.
He then leads them back, where there or four fresh bodies in tattered, well-worn clothes lie on the ground, and there are a few rusty blades and cudgels lying around the place. "They didn't make off with much, only that which they could fit in their pockets, unfortunately, the horses bolted, or were slaughtered last night, so we'll be travelling on foot. It's about half a days walk to the village I mentioned earlier. Come on, let's get started." Sorin walks over and grabs one of the deceased guards and carries him to the centre of the clearing.
Sorin is about to pile one of the bandits on the pile of bodies when Remilia comes out from getting dressed and stops him, "What do you think you're doing?!" she shrieks.
"Dealing with the deceased in an appropriate manner," he says throwing the corpse on to the top.
"They're filthy scum who deserve to rot or become a necromancer's toy!"
"How would you feel if someone said that about your corpse?"
Remilia goes to protest, "They're common criminals! Outlaws!"
"Death cares little," Sorin says grimly. "It comes for all of us, at one or time or another, Kings and curs alike, and you should know that Aurella takes all who pass on under her wing and guides them to safety; be they peasant, king or criminal."
"Not sinners," Remilia responds. "She punishes those who have been corrupted in this life."
"True, but that means those who studied necromancy, became a vampire, or a werewolf voluntarily," Sorin responds quickly. He finishes dumping the bodies on the pile, which is quite high. Sorin looks over to see Avacyn leaning against what's left f her carriage. Sorin silently turns and begins, "Auriella, we doth commit these souls to your loving care, guide them to the Tranquil Plane, where they may be provided for until the End of Days. May they rest in their eternal slumber, without interruption and cursed be they who disturb them, Praise be to the Archangels… amen."
"Amen," the two young ladies repeat after Sorin finishes. Sorin mutters a incantation and a ball of searing light appears in his hand. He throws it into the pile of corpses, where it begins to burn them all to dust. "So these souls are released from torment, and beckoned to peace."
The three waste no time in packing what they can, with Sorin shouldering a large pack with some food and spare clothes. They set upon the road about mid-morning.
Though they encounter few travellers Sorin keeps his eyes pealed, especially on the ditches and bushes. He also notes the attitudes of his charges; Avacyn seems tether indifferent to walking along the road, though she seems alert, while Remilia complains, huffs and pouts every other minute. Sorin knows little about Remilia, which either means she's of a lower social class, or a recently entitled family. He really cares about neither, his time in the Inquisition taught him that such conventions mean little to nothing. He has seen Inquisitors from the common classes that rival, and often surpass, their counterparts from higher rungs of society.
Men are men in Sorin's mind. Simple as that.
Though he expected Avacyn, at least to have complained by no. He thinks that this some extreme form of courtesy.
A little after midday they stop at the roadside and have a meagre meal of bread, cheese and cured meat. Conversation is sparse and they begin travelling again so after. The sun continues its daily arc across the sky.
When its just setting beyond the mountains of Stensia, the three come upon a wooden wall with a couple of watchtowers around a simple reinforced gate. "Halt, state your name and business here!" a sentry calls from the wall.
Sorin removes his hat.
"I apologise, sir, I didn't recognise you from this distance." Sorin remains silent as orders are barked for the gates to be opened…
Edgar's Manor…
Edgar lounges upon his lavish throne in his audience chamber, a goblet of blood in his hand. Two youngling vampires stand before him, having just returned from a scouting mission.
"My lord, we have found your grandson and the princess, they're travelling to a nearby village. From there it is likely that they will make for Thraben as soon as possible."
"Hmm," Edgar points to his butler. "As I recall, Eduard and his men are stationed there aren't they?"
"Yes, my lord."
Edgar rests a finger against his chin. He finds such a golden opportunity hard to pass up, but Eduard is an extremely loyal and powerful servant. Eduard's grudge could prove problematic, but he's the only one who proved a match for Markov… a distraction then, he smiles devilishly. Eduard shall lead Markov away, his men attack the village, and take the princess, who'll 'die' in the fighting. The king doesn't yet know about our true intentions. But, if that should fail… Tibalt. He can deal with Sorin once he reaches Thraben. While his loss would tragic, it is ultimately necessary. From there, my friends from the Stormkirk house can bring the princess to me. He chortles throatily. "My orders are as follows: dispatch Tibalt to Thraben, have him contact our cell there and await further orders. I shall send word to Sir Eduard."
"Indeed, my lord,' the butler responds swiftly…
"Welcome, princess!" the bailiff greets emphatically. "We are honoured to have you as our guest. I am Bailiff Jackl Bauer."
Avacyn smiles gracefully and responds, "I am honoured to be here." Markov groans as quietly as he can.
"And you Lady Dreschler," the bailiff says to Remilia. "You can follow me, I shall show you to your chambers…"