A/N I dont own this. Sorry this chapter is short, the muse was uncooperative to say the least. Please Review!
"And he shall smite the unbelievers,
With fire, ice and sword.
He shall crush the unconvinced
Beneath his hallowed shoe
He shall call his holy arguments
Through the letterbox of doom..."
Mightily- praiseworthy-are-they-who-exalt-Om Oats wasn't quite sure about that last line. When you are hiking through the wilderness of Uberwald you need a song that can inflate your spirits and speak to your heart. Not one about letterboxes.
At least they hadn't actually used the term "hiding behind the sofa" in it. He wondered briefly what a truly accurate song about the church would sound like. It probably wouldn't be very good. "Schism" didn't rhyme well. Nor did "fourteen times a day" or "load of stiff necked idiots" or "Heads up their own bottoms."
In the time since he had left Lancre he had spent a lot of time wondering about the truth of the Church. The holy fire that had been lit in his heart in Lancre burned fiercely stripping away layers of doubt and worry. Unfortunately it had kept going, and managed to light a brighter fire of cynicism, burning away all the church dogma and ritual he had once held so near. The net result was a) he had come to the conclusion that the Holy word of Om was diluted by the church and b) heartburn.
He stopped his progress through the damp, dense Uberwaldean forest in a small clearing. Setting up his tent didn't take long, but sitting in a damp canvas shelter did next to nothing for his mood. He gripped the amulet he wore around his neck, staring despondently at the axe. In that moment he had felt the holy power of Om flow through his body and into the axe. Why did that same holy power not flow into him now? Why could he no longer feel that same presence now? Was Om testing his faith?
No, probably not, he decided. Om didn't go in for tests, or answering prayers or smiting...come to think of it what did he do?
Mightily Oats buried his head in his arms, groaning.
"Mithth Lacrimotha? The mathter wantth to thee you."
Lacci cursed under her breath. That damn Igor was doing it deliberately. The stupid exaggerated lisping, the limp, the bloody cobwebs. Her uncle loved it, her brother seemed too wrapped up in fat Agnes to care and her parents were both too busy being dead to do anything about it.
She dismissed the servant irritably and began to climb the stairs out of her beloved torture chamber. It was the only area of the Castle that she actually liked being in. Her uncle had tried to persuade her to give it up and sit in a tower all day, staring wistfully out over the forest below, mourning her lost humanity. She had pointed out to her uncle that a) there was no forest because he'd replaced it with a coach park and b) She couldn't mourn her lost humanity because she'd been born a vampire.
Her uncle had told her that wasn't the point.
The only thing that was keeping her from going completely crazy was her beloved torture chamber and the eternal hope that her dopey brother might get sick of interacting with humans and simply hand them over to her instead.
She reached the door to her uncle's study and knocked on the heavy oak. A cryptic voice answered
"Come in." she pushed the door open wincing at the squeaky hinges. Her uncle stood, silhouetted in the silvery moonlight, gazing out over the wilds of the dark, dangerous place they called home, illuminated by flashes of untamed lightning...
She pinched herself. Poetic language was one of her pet hates. It was so...clichéd and pathetic. To try and counteract the effects of such disgustingly flowery language, she replied "What do you want, Uncle?" There. A simple, straightforward sentence that didn't use eleven letters in a single word.
"Ah, Lacrimosa.' The count sighed sorrowfully. "I see you still will not embrace your birthright. Igor reported to me yesterday on a very disturbing matter." He turned away from the window to face her. "He tells me that he found a bottle of wine in your room." Lacci swore under her breath. "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"
"It isn't wine. It's blood. I got it in case I was thirsty. I..." The count cut her off.
"I had Igor perform an extensive range of tests on the liquid and whilst I don't really want to know the details, he assures me it is wine. Is that not right Igor?"
"Yeth Mathter" Lacci jumped as Igor suddenly appeared behind her. "It wath thertainly wine, thur. I made thhure of it" Lacci had a sudden urge to grab an umbrella although she didn't know what she'd rather do with it. Stab Igor, or protect herself from the side effects of the lisped screams.
"Uncle, I can explain" she started but was cut off again.
"Can you Lacci, Can you? I take you in after the death of your parents. I feed you, clothe you, shelter you, and all I ask is that you learn. I have tried so hard to teach you the merits of traditional Vampirism and you just throw it in my face." He paused, shaking his head. "Wine Lacrimosa? Wine? We do not drink wine. At the worst we may drink...suspicious pause...vine. Really, Lacci."
"Uncle it was honestly just a present from Frances!" The count stepped forwards, eyes suddenly Blazing
"FROM WHO?"
"From Cryptaglotta" she said, crestfallen. "But I was going to throw it out, honestly. I don't even like it!"
"Lacrimosa, I am very disappointed in you. But this is my fault. I have been too lax. I thought I could change you slowly. I see some drastic measures are needed." He paused before continuing "I am confiscating the keys to your torture chamber" She gasped at the unfairness of it. But her uncle wasn't finished yet. "And I am insisting that you help out tonight. The castle is fully booked and since your brother is nowhere to be seen, I need your help." He gave her a stern look. "Full make up, exaggerated accents and your best gothic dress are required for tonight!"
"But Uncle...last time someone tried to stake me!" she moaned.
"Well if they succeed, then you will have learnt your lesson, wont you?"
"Yes Uncle." She muttered then stomped out groaning. Putting on all that make up would take hours. And unlike certain human circles that use it as a metaphor, she actually would need a shovel.
It was dark by the time Agnes got home from her rounds. In some ways doing the menial tasks helped. It gave her jobs to do and kept her conscious mind off of vampires. Especially gorgeous, skinny ones dead set on seducing handsome waistcoated ones
Unfortunately, her subconscious mind resented the manual labour and when Agnes's subconscious mind was unimpressed she tended to let people know. It had been a constant battle of wills and even the simplest tasks had required enormous levels of concentration.
Therefore following her day of trying to keep Perdita under control, she wasn't in a particularly receptive state of mind when a vampire dropped out of the sky in front of her.
"Hello Agnes"