Summary: Striker finishes yet another job for his mistress.

Pulling up his hood and the scarf over his nose, Striker hurried towards the spot he had left Bombproof. Climbing unto the saddle, he clicked his tongue and cantered away from the scene, cloak billowing behind him.

Dis city was mostly deserted at this hour of the night except for its infamous underworld of demon trafficking and prostitution. Unlike other cities in Pride, Dis has a more… medievalesque air to it. There were no cars, only carriages, and wagons. It may have to do with the fact that most of the reigning Overlords are said to date back from that age.

Bathory's carriage was waiting at the accorded place. Striker brought Bombproof to a halt. Okay, here goes nothing. Taking a deep breath, he gently kicked his horse into a slow walk towards the carriage. One of the servants, an imp just like him but smaller, held Bombproof's reins while he jumped off the saddle. A second servant opened the door of the carriage for him.

Bathory was waiting for him, legs crossed under her blood-red dress. Her long, black claws delicately held a glass of a red, liquid beverage that looked like wine. Striker knew it wasn't wine, however.

"About time! I thought I'd start wrinkling if you took any longer!" the pale Overlord complained.

"My apologies, ma'am. There were some… complications." Striker pulled back his hood and removed his scarf as he sat on the opposite seat.

"But I expect you handed it like usual, right?"

Striker searched into his cloak and took out a white feather soaked in black blood. "It's done, ma'am." Bathory giggled.

"I knew I could count on you, my little peach." Striker winced in discomfort as she pinched his cheek like a five-year-old child. "I trust you handled the rest of the loose ends too, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good!" Bathory siped from her glass. "Want some? It's from a fifteen-year-old virgin."

"I'm afraid I'm not much into blood, milady." Striker shivered, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"You sure, my darling imp? It might actually do you good, you look quite pale."

"I've always had a paler complexion than most imps." Striker clarified. Thankfully, the noblewoman didn't insist any further.

For a brief moment, Striker was hopeful that Bathory might not ask him to go to her chambers today until she spoke up. "Come to my room a little earlier tonight. There are some new… toys I want to try." Striker's hair stood on end as Bathory licked her crimson lips. He felt a shiver down his spine when her tail stroked his legs.

"Actually, ma'am-" he blurted out without thinking. "I was was wonderin'... You see, I had… an appointment tonight. It's very important, and I wouldn't like to-"

"Striker, Striker, Striker." Bathory chuckled, shaking her head. "What have I told you countless times, my little peach? Regarding you and me?"

"It'd be just this once, ma'am! I just need to-" the imp gagged as Bathory's tail suddenly wrapped around his throat and pulled him closer to her. Her previously icy blue eyes were glowing red and her sharp fangs had grown inches longer. The air around them darkened.

"What have I told you?" She hissed in a 'sweet' voice.

Striker gulped. "... Your wish is my command."

"Good. And what is my wish?"

"Go to your chambers earlier than usual, ma'am."

"Good boy." Bathory released his throat and the atmosphere went back to normal. She waved her hand in a dismissive manner. "Now shoo. I need a really long bath before I get any wrinkles."

Striker remained silent as he stepped out of the carriage and the horses were whipped into moving. It wasn't until he was certain that it was a good distance away that he kicked a nearby trashcan with a loud yell. "Fuckin' bitch!"

Bombproof moved closer and gently nuzzled his head against his owner's torso, nickering.

"I'm fine, boy, it's okay…" Striker patted the horse's neck. He let out a sigh as he climbed into the saddle. "I guess our little escapade will have to wait a bit longer."

Dis city is a direct reference to the Divina Comedia by Dante Alighieri.

And yeah, Bathory is the Countess Bathory, history's first female serial killer.

This one takes place during Striker's youth, he was around sixteen when this particular shot takes place.