One week before the nautiloid crash

"Lysithea."

She freezes, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Side all but pressed to the wall in her eagerness to stick to the shadows just beyond the vestiges of light coming from the ballroom, she's reluctant to turn towards the voice. It's just her luck that the grand doors would be left wide open for once, when she's trying to sneak past them. Lysithea waits for a beat, stagnating on doing what she knows she must. Obey.

"Come here."

The tone is severe, tinged with perpetual impatience. There are consequences, she knows, for making a man like her father wait… but she lingers just a moment longer beyond the light, hurriedly positioning her hair to cover the mark on her neck as best as she can. It's mostly guesswork without a mirror and even with the benefit of one, Lysithea would then have to focus on finding her reflection. There's no time for that. Her approximations will have to suffice.

The ballroom is as needlessly resplendent as ever, set up as if to accommodate a lavish party even when it is only her father, brother and a couple of the spawn in attendance. Lysander is sat down at the opposite end of the long dining table, seated beside their father; the great and terrible Lord Cazador Szarr. Three sets of crimson eyes track her as she approaches - and one pair that mirror her own - a luminescent gold that indicates their elven heritage, with that startling vampiric red bleeding outwards from the pupil. The effect, from a distance, is a rich and glowing amber. Up close, their eyes betray them for what they are; dhampir. Lysithea spares Lysander a singular glance, enough to take in the smug anticipation written all over his face at the prospect of her getting in trouble. Thankfully he seems content to keep his mouth shut, for once.

It's of little consequence - as is he - there are much greater, and more immediate things to be worrying over.

Cazador's beady eyes are scouring over her, seeing more than she wants him to. He has always possessed an uncanny ability to pick a person apart with his gaze alone. Critical, exacting and fiendishly observant, her father is near impossible to fool and even harder to please. He glances away from her a second, just long enough to nod towards one of the spawn - Leon - who darts forward to pull a chair back for her, a clear indication that she is expected to sit. Astarion stands off to the side, where Leon had been before ordered away, a cart laden with covered dishes and stained goblets nearby. Lysithea is careful not to make eye contact with either spawn, mindful of Cazador's keen attention. He can decipher much from a look and Lysithea can never quite muster the scorn with which she is supposed to behold them. Better not to look at all.

She smooths out the skirts of her dress once she has taken her place, seated to the right of her father with Lysander inhabiting the seat to his left. Their eyes meet briefly across the table, twin amalgamations of gold and crimson that appear even more ominous by candlelight. There is no warmth to be found in either gaze. The twins stopped being happy to see each other a long time ago.

"You visited that wretched Gortash this evening, did you not?" Cazador questions in a way that is not really a question at all. He already possesses all knowledge, it is simply a matter of making her confirm what he already knows.

"As you asked of me, Father…" Lysithea is cautious in her response. It is all too easy to fall into a trap in the most regular of conversations. "I have been building… rapport… for a number of weeks now."

"And? What have you uncovered?" Shrill. Demanding. Imperious. He grates at her every nerve.

Lysithea crosses one leg over the other beneath her skirts, reclining slightly into her chair and placing both hands neatly upon her knee in order to assume a position that better implies the composure she finds herself lacking. "His 'Steel Watch' are of little threat to us. From what I could gather, they appear to be no more than a means to an end - Gortash has bigger plans - ambitious enough that he would not budge on disclosing them. No matter the incentive... of which I offered plenty."

"I believe I told you to do whatever it takes. You disappoint me, girl. I thought you capable enough, at least, for this."

Lysithea does not allow herself the opportunity to feel cowed, intimidated. She pushes on, paying herself no attention. "He's all but ours. I have never met a politician less concerned with honour - to pay him off would be such a trifling matter I doubt it would even take gold - and once we're in league he'll make us an exception. Those machines of his can identify criminals and and the like. I can convince him so we shan't be identified at all. The spawn will be able to move about freely… things can be as they always have been. I can make it happen. I shall make it happen, Father. If you'll trust me."

More trysts with Enver Gortash are far from a welcome prospect. He is always too much. Too rough, too selfish, too tyrannical for the bedroom. Lysithea finds it easy enough to play the part he desires her to - all it takes is a little acting and a lot of feigned helplessness - Gortash is all too eager to take on the faux dominance she affords him. But she never walks away from their encounters unscathed… hence the rather crude and obvious mark he has left, this time, upon her neck.

As if able to track the direction of her thoughts, Cazador leans over suddenly to bat her long hair away from her neck, exposing the bruising love bite for all to see. Perhaps he had noticed it the moment she walked in and was waiting for the right moment to lay the failing bare. Perhaps he is simply omniscient. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. She should have - could have - been more careful. Father tuts, patronisingly, giving a slow shake of his head as he reclines back into his chair once more.

"You allowed the brute to mark you. Have you no self respect, Lysithea? Respect for your family - for your lineage?! For centuries we have been relegated to the shadows, obscured by the restrictions of our blood! Whilst I am confined to the night it is the duty of Lysander and yourself to represent the Szarr name in society during the day. It is unbefitting of a noble lady - a Szarr such as yourself - to traipse around the city like a classless whore. Yet you sit here and ask for my trust, hmm? My confidence?"

"You said… whatever it takes." Lysithea knows it's a mistake as soon as she's said it, the words spilling from her lips unbidden. It's like something from a dream, a sense of complete lack of control and out of body observation. She's watching herself make the blunder, helpless to prevent it. Perhaps if she were in the right state of mind - if she were not so tired and hungry - she could have kept the words firmly in her head where they belong.

"And now you presume to talk back to me?! I, who raised you? I, who house you - feed you - clothe you?!"

"I only-"

"Astarion," Cazador cuts her off, calling out to the spawn still standing a few feet away. He brandishes a knife from the table - one meant for carving meat - and holds it out for Astarion to take. Sensing the oncoming danger, Lysithea quickly rises to her feet. "Cut the unsightly thing from her neck."

Vaguely horrified but far from surprised, she begins to back away, eyes darting between the knife, her father and the vampire spawn who has just been compelled to maim her.

There is little use in running, Lysithea is all too aware, but the logical part of her brain has been overridden by the fear; the frantic desire not to experience the pain. Even after almost three hundred years, she's prone to lapses like this from time to time. Lysander does not move from his chair to help her, barely even reacts. Punishment is a common occurrence in this place, for all but Cazador himself. Astarion plucks the knife from his master's hand and advances on her slowly, stalking with the measured and patient gait of a predator. She is far from prey herself, but in moments like these… there is no other role left to play. Wildly outnumbered. No chance of escape. The only viable option is to endure this as she endures everything else.

There is a plan… centuries in the making. Lysithea cannot afford to lose momentum now.

She abandons her retreat, allowing Astarion to close in on her in his own time. There is satisfaction in his bloody red eyes, the menacing set of his eyebrows and the subtle curve of his lips speaks to his feeling of vindication. He will enjoy this, she has no doubt about it. Yet Lysithea cannot find it within herself to blame him, for he knows nothing about her. Nobody does. She is a walking act, a pretence maintained over the course of countless years. Were she hard pressed to do so, she doubts she could even confess to knowing herself. There is no sense in blaming the spawn for the things they do under Cazador's command, just as there's no sense in blaming them for the hate they foster of their own volition. They don't know why she stays. They know nothing of the women in the dungeon. They could never guess at her plan.

There is the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor behind her, then a hand appears on her shoulder, pushing her down into it. They're about halfway down the long dining table, Cazador still in place at the head down the end. Lysithea glances up at the person holding her down, meeting hauntingly familiar eyes; crimson spilling into gold. Her own. Lysander stares back at her impassively, cold and unyielding. But his hand is not painful or restrictive on her shoulder. They are both lukewarm to the touch - not quite dead, nor quite alive - the two of them rarities in the world, yet completely at odds.

"Poor show tonight," Lysander mutters to her, low enough that his tone remains as ambiguous as his motivations. "I can't stand an easy win."

The tip of the knife digs unreservedly into her flesh, causing her to grit her teeth to bear with the rawness of the pain. Her eyes flash towards Astarion, but she makes sure not to lower her chin to obscure access to her neck; no point in delaying the process. Think of it like a procedure, she tells herself, just something that has to be over and done with. Astarion is precise with the knife, an expert in wielding the blade. He lingers in places, likely to prolong her suffering, but never overlong. Lysander's hands on her shoulders are just barely warm enough to keep her aware of his presence. He says nothing, does nothing but occasionally increases the pressure of his hold, fingertips digging ever so slightly into her collarbone intermittently. Noticeably so when Astarion procrastinates. Lysithea does not bother trying to decipher his reasoning - she gave up trying to read his mind a long time ago - her brother is something of an enigma, ever contradicting with his words and actions. Worse, he is her greatest competition and therefore dangerous to know too well. A rival is not to be known or sympathised with, especially when the stakes are so high.

"Make no mistake, child… this you have brought unto yourself. You were careless, allowed liberties to be taken where you shouldn't. That is not behaviour befitting an heir. That is not behaviour befitting a Szarr." Cazador's inflection is far too casual for the circumstances, as if chiding a small child for an 'I told you so' moment, rather than the brutal reality of his own making. He sounds almost amused - indulgent - and she feels sick to have grown so used to torture that she possesses the wherewithal right now to even notice it. "Everything I do, everything I teach you, dear girl… is ultimately for your own good. Whether you decide to wield such wisdom… well, that is entirely up to you."

Finally - blissfully - Astarion is done, one last slice to separate the section of skin and flesh from the bloody wound left behind. Gortash's mark is gone, reduced to a piece of skin and viscera in the palm of Astarion's hands. He walks it dutifully over to his master for inspection, who gives the barest nod of approval before tossing the gory thing to the wolves that guard the door to his study. They fight over it, teeth gnashing to tear at the sliver of meat they've been gifted.

Lysander's hands are gone from her shoulders, a napkin pushed to the wound in her neck, one of her own hands forced up to hold it there. With that, he's gone, strolling with an eerie calm back over to his seat at the table; once more assuming his position at their father's side. Lysithea lost the battle today, but she doesn't believe he looks all too triumphant about it. Seemingly unconcerned about winning the war.

No matter, there is surely gloating to come.

Cazador beckons her over to join them once more and she does so, staggering a few steps before forcing herself to take a more coordinated stride. Despite this, she still all but collapses into the chair she had inhabited previously. Lysithea adjusts her hold on the napkin, applying more pressure to stem the blood - the smell is far too distracting, even if it's her own - and pushes her hair out of her face with her free hand. She clears her throat, settles into an approximation of the composed stance she had taken before, and forces herself to say:

"Thank you for the lesson, Father."

The nod she receives is gracious, the accompanying smile less so. He bares far too many teeth - fangs included - for it to come across as anything but sadistic.

"Thank me by proving your worth. I want Enver Gortash under my control. You say you can deliver, so deliver. Impress me."

Lysithea nods, ignoring the pain. It's all she can do.

"Excellent. Now, my child… I don't suppose you have taken the time to eat with all your gallivanting around this evening?" There is the barest hint of something conspiratorial in his tone - something hidden - something not to be trusted. Her eyes dart instinctually towards her brother, who gives a firm yet barely perceptible shake of his head. A clear sign. A warning.

Her attention is drawn to the empty plate in front of Lysander, just enough residue left behind to indicate there was once food served upon it. So, it seems, Lysander must have taken his chances with the meal… then was forced to eat every last bite. Whether due to hunger or desperation to please, Lysithea cannot say. This is a 'game' of sorts that Cazador has played with them for as long as she can remember. As dhampir, both Lysithea and Lysander are equally able to survive on blood or food. Their father has always insisted they should live as vampires, so has frequently been known to have any food they eat laced with various poisons or emetics to encourage them towards surviving on blood instead. Not always, but often enough that accepting a non-liquid meal within the palace is a gamble not often taken. A risk that is seldom likely to ever pay off.

The one thing the twins do not do is lie to each other about the food. For whatever reason, that has always been their one unspoken rule.

Lysithea inspects her brother closely and, indeed, she can pick up on the signs now that she's looking for them. He's pale - even more than usual - and sweating. His pupils dilated, blown out beyond reason. Over towards the other side of the vast ballroom, beyond the reach of the light exuding from the chandeliers, she can just make out a grimy little bucket by the wall. Very faintly, there is the lingering after-smell of vomit. Of stale blood.

Poison or emetics? Lysithea ponders. Both?

Whatever the case, it explains Lysander's uncharacteristically reserved behaviour. He usually has far too much to say, the greatest indication of when something is truly wrong is when he's quiet.

Remembering the haste with which she ought to answer her father, Lysithea turns her attention back towards him with eagerness fuelled by her recent trauma. "Rather... I'm thirsty. Might I ask for some blood?"

Cazador looks darkly pleased and permits it, beckoning Leon over to serve her a goblet full of whatever animal's life essence is on the menu for her tonight. It's never human - Father's only ever allowed them the pleasure of tasting human blood just once - and it was the closest Lysithea believes she has ever been to a religious experience. It had been divine. Incomparable.

Later, once finally given permission to depart for her room, Lysithea contemplates the knowledge truly gained from her encounter with Enver Gortash. He had allowed her one question and, despite Cazador's wishes, she had not used it to ask about the blasted Steel Watch. No, she'd snuck back in to his grand office later on to find the information she needed on that front. It was easy enough considering the number of times she'd already been there and she was familiar enough with his desk given how often he liked to ravage her on top of it. Thankfully, Lysithea had been able to use her one question wisely - Mephistopheles - given Enver's time in the Hells, she thought it reasonable to assume he might know something about the devil in question. Gortash had laughed, of course, and been delighted(?) that she had gone to the effort to do such extensive research, but ultimately referred her to the services of another. Raphael. A cambion, one of the few willing to defy Mephistopheles and therefore most likely to answer her questions. The thought spurs her forward, fastens her pace through the shadowy corridors of the palace. This is the closest she's ever been to finding out what Cazador's up to, the furthest she's gotten in all her efforts to figure out his plans. There have been countless whispers over the years, of the devil from behind closed doors… Mephistopheles… glimpses of the name in her father's writings. Lysithea doesn't have enough to put it all together in her mind, but by now she's come to recognise that Cazador clearly thinks the scheme incredibly important. What else would you call such a closely guarded secret? How is it connected to what goes on in the study - or beneath the palace - in the dungeon, where he keeps his so called 'harem' imprisoned? There had been eight women down there the last time Lysithea had been allowed to visit. Gods only know how many are left, how any of them are faring. Mother had been weak all that time ago… it seems foolish to hope she's any better now.

She tosses the napkin aside the moment she enters her room, locking the door behind her swiftly. The wound will close up soon enough - she heals faster than a mortal - yet slower than a vampire. Still, fast enough to be somewhat convenient.

Lysithea grabs for a scrap of paper and scribbles down: Sharess' Caress. Devil's Den. Raphael.