Five days before the nautiloid crash
"How much longer is this going to take?"
"Why, Nita?" Lysithea takes a pause long enough to spare her cousin a significant look. "Have somewhere else to be?" She gestures broadly at the room around them, the attic space Amanita has kept herself locked away in since the late 1400s. It remains sparsely furnished, thanks to Cazador's seemingly endless willingness to hold a grudge - but there are certain personal touches - the kind easily tucked away when it comes time for an inspection. Pieces of paper are pinned to the walls in a haphazard fashion - no discernible rhyme or reason given to placement - any kind of uniformity only to be found in the actual writing. Words cover every square inch of every piece of paper. Much thought appears to have been given to the careful placement and sizing of each letter, indicative of the author's limited access to writing materials. Lysithea has snuck errant bits of furniture up here over the years - a cushion Astarion had used at one point to practice embroidery, a couple of Lysander's discarded books - some pressed flowers left over from Dalyria's secret experiments and a number of Lysithea's own drawings.
It occurs to Lysithea, suddenly, that her recluse of a cousin just might be the closest thing she has to a friend.
Tragic.
"It's the middle of the bloody day, Lysithea, and I'm exhausted."
"I cannot believe this. Here I am, risking life and limb just to follow through on your request that I draw you-"
"You're hardly risking life and limb-"
"I am. I'm risking my arms, my legs and every single one of my fingers and toes just to satisfy the whims of a hermit."
"A hermit?" Amanita gasps, a hand flying to her chest in mock outrage. They share a conspiratorial grin. It's refreshing to be able to engage in some lighthearted bickering without the fear of consequences like she would a few floors below. In that world, everything has the potential to be received as a slight - everything.
"You're not used to such refined company, I know…" Lysithea is sure to amp up the faux condescension to really sell the performance. "But fear not, my dearest hermit, for I am all but done." This part, at least, is true. With a flourish, Lysithea presents her cousin with the finished piece and stands in order to partake in a full body stretch. She is far too old to sit for so very long. What a paradox it is, to be so youthful yet ancient.
"By the Gods, Lys… you've really outdone yourself with this one!" Amanita exclaims - in fact so distracted by the drawing that she discards whatever she was writing off to the side - the truest sign that something has properly grabbed her attention. "How strange it is to… Gods, is that really me? It's been… it's been so long…"
"… Shit, you're not going to cry, are you?"
Too late. Not only is Amanita's face wet with tears, but she appears to be approaching for a dreaded hug. "I cannot even begin to-" Nita sniffles into Lysithea's shoulder.
She grimaces, feeling the fabric of her tunic quickly growing damp with the moisture. Reluctantly, she attempts to return the affection, patting awkwardly at her cousin's back. It's moments like these that really bring into clarity just how young Amanita was when she was turned. "There, there… you really oughtn't feel so honoured, you know. I did a portrait for one of the rats only last week."
Amanita gives a slightly distressed sounding laugh, no doubt still in some kind of emotional turmoil after finally seeing herself after so many years of nothing. "Was it an appreciative rat?"
"Hard to say. A cheap little fellow, to be sure. Could not spare me even a single crumb of cheese as thanks for my time."
The next laugh is more composed, the front of Lysithea's tunic feels less wet… and true enough, Nita appears much calmer when she steps back to release her from the hug. Amanita, who only accepts being called Nita and goes by Lady Incognita in her writing, is perhaps the only person around who might understand being saddled with a name and legacy so repugnant and yet so inescapable. Though she has, by all accounts, renounced her surname and retreated from society, Amanita still remains stuck here, with the rest of the damned and foolish. Hundreds - nay, thousands - of years from now, some scholar will make record of their names and still include the dreaded Szarr. No matter their other accomplishments, there will be no escaping the association.
Ultimately, Amanita's writings will achieve little more than to prove that she existed. She had been alive. She suffered here, with the rest of them.
Watching the joy with which Nita inspects her portrait, Lysithea wishes there was a future where she could find these small happy moments for herself. But the path she's on - and the success of her life's mission - relies on the loss of the very thing required to make that possible. If all goes to plan, the time will come for Lysithea to sacrifice her soul in exchange for becoming a true vampire. Though she knows it to be the only way she might ever be powerful enough to take down Cazador… there is still a hollow, half realised kind of grief that clings to her like a shadow. Grief that has stalked her with every cautious step through the palace over all these brutal years. Lysithea can stand among the people of Baldur's Gate and wonder about the lives they might lead, the things they're probably taking for granted… but she will never join them; never be one of them. Never will she experience how it feels to smile with true sincerity, what it means to be safe or loved… or wanted. There will never be the comfort of a home, nor a place to belong. People to belong to.
Most of all, Lysithea mourns the person she might have been. The woman she will never get to know. Is she good? Is she kind? Does she get to live happily in another lifetime?
Why not now? Why not this one?
She thinks she might envy her cousin… for the simple luxury of getting to keep her soul.
Lysander comes skulking into the foyer just as Lysithea is descending down the staircase to the ground floor. She catches his scent - or rather, the scent he's carrying with him - before she picks up on any other indication of his presence. Because he really does skulk, he's good at it too, perhaps even better than she.
And if she's detected Lysander, he will have already done the same.
Their father has, on occasion, referred to her brother as a bloodhound because he could 'sniff out a cadaver all the way over on the other side of Faerûn'. An exaggeration, of course, but by no means an unfounded lie. Lysander possesses an uncanny knack for a number of things… and a keen sense of smell is chief among them. There was that time, for instance, when Lysithea accidentally sliced her finger open with a letter opener in her room and he caught the smell of her blood all the way over from by the palace's front gates. He had not even been inside the building, nor near an open window.
Before she can sneak her way back up the stairs in pursuit of the enticingly lockable door to her room, Lysander has already turned the corner at the other end of the hallway. To continue now would equate to her fleeing rather than tactically retreating, as she had originally been intending. So, instead, Lysithea resigns herself to meeting him halfway but takes simple pleasure in descending the stairs even slower than she had been prior to his arrival. She hopes it does a fine job broadcasting the lack of interest she is hoping to feign.
Gods, he reeks of some overly potent perfume. The kind which is currently popular among the noble ladies of the Gate. A combination of rich scents that must be intended to feel heady to the average mortal, but to any creature with heightened senses….
Lysithea recoils from him a little, once he comes near enough for the assault on her senses to become near overwhelming.
Her brother's sharp eyes dart down to her hands, for some reason, disregarding the rest of her in search of whatever it is that's caught his attention. "It's like you're hardly even trying anymore."
She frowns, thinking he sounds oddly subdued once again, just as he had the other night in the ballroom. Trying to grasp for context, Lysithea glances down at her hands - at whatever it is he's staring at - only to find stark splotches of ink staining some of her fingers. A foolish oversight on her part, for she'd wanted parts of Amanita's portrait to be more defined, the lines more exact than with charcoal. Her eyelashes, for example, needed to be striking - and her hair a darker shade to match reality - yet no thought was given to the residue ink was likely to leave behind. The effect it might have in ruining her otherwise spotless outwards appearance. All too important when she has a carefully cultivated image to maintain.
Lysithea links her hands behind her back, putting those pesky ink stains out of sight. Her brother is rather like a shark, she thinks, fine tuned to the scent of blood with a keen eye for weaknesses. She misses her chance to respond, too distracted by the comparison.
"How slovenly… not the kind of behaviour one might expect from a lady…" Lysander taunts lowly, voice all too calm and measured for her liking. This is how he likes to play, with the leisure of a predator who feels comfortable taking his time with whomever he considers his prey.
"And you think a lord ought to conduct his business while the stench of whatever debauched encounter with whichever defiled noble he-"
"No need to get worked up, Lys…" he cuts her off, showcasing his teeth along with the delight of provoking her. "It is only a scent, after all. Hardly comparable to the scandal of a love bite. Father is unlikely to have me maimed for it."
"Maimed is a strong word," Lysithea objects, inspecting her nails as an excuse to avert her eyes and try to regain her composure. She only has to match his energy, meet him strike for strike. It is only ever family that causes her to falter. "I thought it rather shallow for a flesh wound. All but healed by the morning. Do you need to be so dramatic, Lysander? Does it excite you?"
"I find you incredibly dull, actually. A walking coma." There is an energy in him when he says this, an invigorated pattern to this speech, that tells her this is a lie. The fatigue from before has vanished, as if the opportunity to trade insults with her has revitalised him. Lending life to a body that was more dead than it was alive. A brief spark in his half-corpselike being.
"And yet you chase me down at every possible opportunity, like a clingy little puppy dog. It's pathetic, you know, to be this eager for the attention of someone who wouldn't think twice about never seeing you again." Gods, she wishes she'd stayed on the stairs if only to be towering over him now. His advantage in height is aggravating, lends itself too easily to his attempts at intimidation. About a hundred years ago, this kind of thing would still be making her feel guilty. But they had said so many things much worse to each other since and in comparison this current exchange feels tame. Tired.
Lysander's sharp grin fades slightly, taking on more of a grimace. His jaw works, drawing attention to the movement of muscles in his neck. She gets a peek at what look like scratch marks on his shoulder, leading down from where it meets the junction of his neck until his clothes covers the rest. His hair is mussed, too - not artfully - but dishevelled in a way Lysander would never style it. Lysithea looks at her twin in the dim lighting of the heavily shadowed hallway and does not see a man revelling in post-coital bliss. If she had to put the appearance to description, she thinks it might be a good match for how she felt the other night after her encounter with Gortash. How it always feels to trudge back home having given away another part of herself for the sake of maintaining the facade. Lysander, in this moment, looks a little like he could conceivably understand how it feels to make your body a tool - to completely lose your sense of self - enforced detachment just to be able to bear it.
No pride in those eyes. No blood on those lips. Lysander was following orders again today, at Cazador's behest. Which society darling has he been ordered to seduce? Lysithea wonders. It is not a man this time, she thinks it safe to assume, because the perfume he stinks of is popular only with the ladies. Their father sends them both out indiscriminately - each twin given targets of any gender - otherwise they're more or less free to pursue their own fun. But Lysithea never has and she's not certain whether Lysander has either. It is too closely associated with duty and the obligation to perform.
Sex lost its lustre a long time ago. In fact, she's not so sure it had ever been appealing in the first place. Actually, she feels certain. Sex has never been a thing to be desired, not in her experience, merely endured and quickly forgotten.
"Is that so? Then why do you look like you just caught someone beating that puppy dog in the street?" Lysander's gaze feels condemning, judgemental. The light in his eyes is beginning to dim again, his posture becoming more rigid. He seems defensive, scornful. Lysithea remembers how it used to be for them, those first few years in the dungeon when Father had no use for them and left the twins to be raised by the women trapped down there. Despite the fear and the cold and the creeping horror, she remembers those times fondly. They had each other and the women and best of all… they had Mother. The dungeon was cold, bleak and dark yet Mother and the other women were so kind and warm; so endlessly loving. Lysithea sometimes wishes they had never experienced that - gotten a brief glimpse at what family should be - because existence would surely be much easier without ever having known just what they were missing.
Lysander once clung to her hand like he would never let it go. Then one day he did… and will likely never hold it again.
"Take a bath," Lysithea tries to bite back at him but cannot entirely forbid the strained edge to her tone. "You reek. It's vile."
And as she strides down the hallway past him, she does not dare to look back. She can feel the ghost of his tiny little hand in her own from all that time ago, itching at her open palm until she clenches her fist to try and quell it.
Raphael gestures towards her grandiosely, very much in his element playing the role of host. They are sat across from each other at a small table that newly furnishes his rooms at Sharess' Caress. Two teacups are set in place in front of both of them, while one of the pleasure house's serving girls is stood off to the side with a teapot in her hands.
"I have requested a brew that hails from the resplendent parlours of Waterdeep. A client of mine served it to me only a few weeks ago, yet the taste lingers on my tongue. Robust, distinct… with the lightest of spices to round out the flavour. A truly divine invention, even I feel compelled to admit. Dear Lysithea, will you join me for a cup?"
She flares her nostrils as subtly as she can, trying to scent what little there is of the tea in question. The spice Raphael mentioned makes it difficult to identify the telltale signs of anything sinister and at this distance it's too difficult to pick the different elements apart. Logically, Lysithea knows it would make little to no sense for Raphael to want to poison or addle her now, given their proximity to making a deal. She would be no good to him in a weakened state. And yet…
Her stomach churns at the thought of drinking it. Of drinking anything that isn't blood. Experience has taught her time and time again that it's not safe. Not viable. Surviving like a mortal begets punishment.
There are eyes everywhere. Father will know.
"I will have to… decline," she attempts to cover her unease but evidently does a poor job of it. Raphael's eyes scour over her with the eager intensity of a hunter. He's picking her apart, alerted to the barest hint of an opportunity to exploit and devour.
"Really? How… unexpected." Raphael spares the serving girl the barest of glances and waves her away, dismissing her once she has filled his cup. Once she has left the room, he continues to speak. "I was labouring under the impression that dhampir could survive by both mortal and immortal means. Do not tell me all written history has it wrong."
"Could does not equate to should." Lysithea's tone is sharper, more defensive than she means it to be. But it cannot be helped, a slight panic has begun to settle in, the fear of allowing a devil a glimpse at any weaknesses.
"Hmm…." Raphael muses, arms coming to fold over his chest while one hand goes to his chin in an elegant pose of rumination. "You continue to intrigue, little dhampir. So daring, so enduring… and yet so determinedly, utterly misguided. You're a fledgling sheep in wolf's clothing - entirely out of your depth - almost certain to fail… but even so… I find myself rooting for you, my dear. I want you to win. I have always been so very fond of an underdog, you see. They're always the ones with nothing left to lose."
Lysithea crosses one leg over the other, arms crossing beneath her bust to mirror the devil's own posture. She affords him a scowl of the instinctual variety - more a courtesy than anything - Raphael seems the type to enjoy any opportunity to provoke. "If you have a point, devil, why don't you just get to it?"
Raphael grins, arms abandoning his front to come down on either side of him as he suddenly clings to the armrests of his chair. Leaning forward, across the small table and into her space, he appears more devilish now than ever. Embers burn in the depths of his smouldering brown eyes, the promise of oncoming danger. "The information you seek is not so easily imparted. While I am a man of means, defying an archdevil such as Mephistopheles invites a certain amount of… risk. Which, in turn, warrants a degree of caution. This is a dangerous game you wish for us to play, mouse. One I am eager to begin, but not without due-"
Lysithea sighs heavily, quickly growing bored of his monologues. She interrupts him just to take pleasure in the annoyance that flits across his features before he can manage to school his expression back into what it had been. It's nice to know they are both acting, engaging in a performance of sorts. It places them on a more level ground, as it seems life is a stage for devil and dhampir alike. "Well, am I mouse or sheep, Raphael? Make up your mind. Better yet, deign to recognise that I am not some helpless little prey animal for you to place your bets on as I race. I came to bargain, not to be demeaned. If you cannot uphold your end, I will seek out a more capable devil to conduct my business with."
There is a following beat or two of silence - borne from shock, she imagines - which is broken only by the thunderous outbreak of Raphael's laughter. He throws his head back with it, body language belying his genuine amusement. Once he is done, he stands to take the single step between his side of the table and her own. Grabbing her hand up from where it had been placed upon her knee, Raphael presses his lips to the back - where she knows he will find the smooth skin lukewarm in temperature - the upward curve of his lips a crescent moon against her flesh. He is warm - almost to the point of discomfort - fire burning beneath his skin that feels a little like it sears across her own.
"How lovely, your impatience. How delectable, your spite. You make quite the feast, Lysithea Szarr - I would make a banquet of your soul - and, no doubt, it would keep me fed… sated for days. But I digress, for you are indeed here to bargain, and as such… I will endeavour to satisfy your desires with the terms of our contract." Raphael clicks his fingers and releases her hand, yet remains stood in place. A contract appears before her, in a puff of smoke which brings with it the embers and smell of sulphur from before, when he had magicked her outside of his rooms.
"You have not been so concerned with risk that you could not bear to write up a contract, I see…" Lysithea murmurs, rising from her chair to better inspect the floating and flaming parchment. As expected, he's written the damned thing in Infernal, a language beyond her comprehension. "A version in common, if you please."
Raphael is wearing that smile again, the one that gives her the impression he knows far more than he is letting on. He clicks his fingers again and a twin contract appears beside the first, legible this time. "I do so enjoy the whims of a discerning client." The edge to his tone indicates he does not.
Lysithea narrows her eyes as she reads. "You want me to steal something?"
"Sometime soon, Lord Cazador Szarr will be hosting a menagerie of the vampiric elite in his palace. Come to this fair city from far and wide… bringing with them a variety of boons. There is one in particular I desire. A mirror of infernal design, the result of a bargain made between one of my fellows and a rather desperate vampire many, many years in the distant past. An intriguing tale, if you care to hear it…?"
"You cannot expect me to believe you are simply in need of a mirror." Lysithea elects to ignore his mention of a tale, not caring much for such obvious bait. He means to distract her from her line of questioning, draw her attention away from the terms under inspection.
"You are not to expect anything as I am not required to answer your pithy questions."
"I have told you once already: I will seek out another if I must. Enough stalling."
"Do you truly believe that there will be another willing to challenge the archdevil Mephistopheles? I do so hate to rain on your parade, as it were, but I am it. I am the one choice you have. Your only option. The very last chance for you to succeed. Make a deal with me or forfeit making a deal entirely."
"And what makes you so special? What incentive do you have in this?"
"Something you will undoubtedly understand all too well, my darling. The willingness of a child to disobey their father."
Ah. It makes far too much sense. Lysithea leans most of her weight on one foot, jutting out her hip and placing a hand upon it. She tilts her head slightly in examination, taking a good look at the man before her. There is no hint of a lie - no need for it - it would be pointless to attempt to deceive her with this. He could just as easily have claimed to be the bravest of his kind, willing to defy his betters for the sake of pride and ambition. But this is… not that. This is almost vulnerable, a glimpse behind the curtain. Raphael has revealed something of himself, just as she had during their first meeting. A compromise, perhaps, or… an indication? A sensation nags at her, something like excitement; the recognition of a slight advantage. Whatever this mirror is - whatever it does - Raphael must want it badly. Or, if not badly, then he wants it enough.
Which means…
"Tell me the truth. What use would a devil have for a vampiric artefact?"
"Plenty, Lady Szarr! Have you no imagination? There is something very key that both my kind and yours have in common: a coveting of souls. If you simply must know, this mirror traps them - holds them - the very essence of the long departed. In fact, it has done so for even longer than you have been in existence. Longer than your father, also. It is an easy win for any cambion, to get their hands on such a massive influx of souls… and with such little effort expended, too. Does that answer your question, my dear?"
"It answers a number of them, to be sure. Though-"
That familiar puff of crimson, the same hellish scents as before and the glittering embers to solidify her recognition of such magic. A rather beautiful dwarf appears amongst the fading smoke, in place beside Raphael, arrived so suddenly Lysithea could swear she almost feels dizzy from it. The dwarf is finely dressed, her outfit a fine coordination of styling and colours with Raphael's princely garb. It immediately inspires association between them, a most vaguely kept uniform in common.
"Apologies for the interruption, boss, but there's something that requires your attention back at the House." The dwarf's tone is intriguing as she delivers such news, eyes held just wide enough for Lysithea to pick up on the apprehension the poor thing is likely to be feeling. They are fine eyes, a shade of gold not quite as bold as her own… and fixed resolutely on Raphael.
"Now?" Raphael rumbles, his voice dropping to a pitch any would describe as dangerous.
"Urgently," the dwarf confirms.
"Urgently?" Raphael echoes, finally deigning to turn in the dwarf's direction. Lysithea wonders what kind of expression he must be fixing his associate with, for her to blanch the way she does. "Hmm… pray tell, Korrilla, what could be so urgent that even one as… capable… as you could not contain it? I am conducting business right now. As well you knew."
For the first time, the dwarf - Korrilla's - eyes dart towards Lysithea. She appears to consider her response very carefully before she gives it.
"There are those waiting for you at the House who are beginning to lose… hope."
Raphael's posture straightens suddenly so that he is no longer looming menacingly over Korrilla. He smooths a hand down the front of his immaculately tailored tunic in a motion Lysithea would describe as 'self soothing'. Whatever this code between the two co-conspirators might mean, it sure has rattled the devil rather visibly. Raphael does not speak for a moment or two, though he does not really need to in order to be so easily understood. He is remarkably rigid now, clawed fingers curling inwards towards his palms in frustration. Raphael does not quite go as far as to close his fists, though he is clearly aching to - just dying to tremble with the fury she feels certain he is constantly just keeping at bay - perhaps saving it for later, when he is free to lose control behind closed doors. Lysithea knows how that feels, can almost sympathise with the pressure of ever prying eyes.
Hard pressed as she might be to ever feel sorry for the likes of Raphael.
"… Again?" Impossibly, his tone seems even more dangerous than before. As if something had hollowed it out, leaving behind the impression of an icy void - a vast and all encompassing darkness veiled thinly by the barest veneer of civility left clinging to his words. The devil is furious… that much is clear. "Such a shame, my dear. You had been performing so well." There is a bite to every word which promises prolonged punishment.
Korrilla swallows, the bob of her throat obvious and alluring to Lysithea now that her attention has been drawn to it. As tense as she is, the dwarf would be easy to prime for feeding. She can picture it, the sweat cooling on Korrilla's fevered skin, the pretty blue - perhaps purple - of the prominent, bulging vein standing out against the vulnerable expanse of her neck. The sound of rushing, eager blood. A drumbeat for a heart, proud and vivacious. Lysithea remembers the goblet from all that time ago, the sweet nectar that had pooled in her mouth and warmed her throat most deliciously. Despite her current fear, Lysithea can see a lingering fire in the dwarf's fine eyes. A delectable conquest to-
"Lysithea Szarr…" Raphael's theatrical timbre draws her out of her little unintended fantasy, his tone once more returned to normal. Forcing her eyes away from Korrilla's neck, Lysithea assesses the state of the devil she was meant to be conducting a deal with. Once more, he appears utterly composed. Charming. Indulgent. "Ogle as you wish, but do keep in mind that any attacks on my personal staff will be met with a severity befitting the Hells themselves." He diverts his attention towards Korrilla, waving a hand in Lysithea's general direction. "A lesson I hope you have now learned, my dear, in practicing emotional regulation when in the company of…" Raphael pauses, eyes drifting up and off to the left as if trying to think of a polite word to replace whatever insult he would usually have used instead. 'Blood-drinkers…" Raphael decides on, offering Lysithea an appeasing smile to soothe the carefully delivered barb. "Too much excitement sets them off. It's rather like roasting a fresh cut of meat before a slavering pack of hungry wolves. Quite the foolish endeavour, indeed."
Korrilla faces this threat with perfect calm in comparison to her borderline panic when dealing with Raphael. If it scares her at all to know Lysithea had just been hungering for her lifesblood, she does a supreme job of hiding it. There is such an impressive expression of indifference on her face now that Lysithea thinks she might just find it humorous. Not enough to laugh, of course, she reserves such outwards display of genuine emotion for the relative safety of Amanita's attic.
"You really cannot decide, can you?" Lysithea drawls, brushing her long hair back from her shoulder so that it swoops low across her back. The dark curls come down to her waist but hang lower when she's seated. "By your assessment… do you deem me fit to be predator… or prey? Which is it? Wolf, sheep, mouse…" She's utterly calm in her delivery, a well practiced routine by now. Apathy in the face of degradation. Lysithea knows his kind all too well, the constant comparisons to animals having become an all too obvious insult to ignore. "I do so hate indecision."
Raphael offers another obliging smile, his posture adjusting to attempt some kind of half-formed bow. The movement is smooth - almost melodic - and Lysithea wonders if he wears as much silk or velvet as it seems. With a small gesture to Korrilla, presumably an order to wait, he returns to where Lysithea remains seated at their table. The tea is doubtless stone cold by now. Yet another waste of her time.
"Well, that remains to be seen…" Raphael informs her, speaking as if sharing some grand secret between the two of them. He imitates her seated stance by crossing one leg over the other, then waves a hand towards the scroll still floating in the air. It blinks out of existence then reappears before her, a strange heat exuding off the otherworldly vellum. A quill appears beside it, hovering on the side of the hand she would use to write. "It seems you have much you wish to prove, so why not show me?"
Lysithea fixes him with a hard look, eyebrows raising ever so slightly in disbelief at the transparency of his goading. "I require some time to think," she tells him. To be manipulated so openly is an insult she almost cannot bear.
"And yet you have none…" Raphael sighs with feigned pity, shaking his head as if saddened by her predicament. "Your father's guests arrive tomorrow, then will be gone by the morning. I have no more time to spare for you tonight. You'll have the briefest of windows to get me that artefact, and unfortunately for you, dear girl… there isn't anything else I happen to want enough. If it is your desire to learn all about Mephistopheles' dastardly dealings… you'll get me my mirror. If not…"
"So when you said they would be arriving 'sometime soon'…?"
"Does tomorrow evening not count as 'sometime soon'?" Raphael flashes his teeth as he grins. "You'll have to excuse me… I hadn't been aware that it didn't."
Oh, he most certainly had.
Lysithea taps her fingernail against the wood of the table rapidly, a frown settling heavy on her brow. "This all works out remarkably well for you, doesn't it?"
"Most things do, little mouse. When you have lived for as long as I… you learn how to set up the board to assure victory every time."
"I want a written guarantee you will get me the information I'm looking for. Get me that…" Lysithea decides, "and only then shall I sign." The bastard has ensured she has little choice in the matter. As much as she despises the situation Raphael has put her in… it is perhaps the most solid course of action she has been able to take in a very long time. There is a small degree of satisfaction in knowing she will not have to be patient for another hundred or so years. This is all happening very rapidly. This is happening now.
Raphael hums, a low luxurious thing that threatens to brush up against her leg like a satisfied cat. The sound sets off goosebumps across her lukewarm flesh. "A fair request. One I amenable to granting." Another wave of his hand and the writing on the scroll adjusts to include the addendum. "There, my lady… now, are you happy?"
"Far from it, you bastard. But you knew I wouldn't be." Lysithea says it pleasantly, as if delivering a compliment.
Then, heart like a sinking weight in her chest, she takes a hold of the quill and signs the damned contract.
A whispered shout of her own name draws Lysithea's attention towards a pair of crimson eyes against the blackness of a darkened alleyway to her left on the way home. She is barely sixteen paces from Sharess' Carress and it is now late enough at night that all is mostly silent around her. Only a desperate few remain of the crowd from earlier. She cocks her head, wondering just how stupid a person would have to be in order to follow a shadowed person into an alleyway at night. She continues walking, delving back into her thoughts about the devil's damned deal.
"Mistress! Mistress Lysithea, please!" The voice calls out again, marginally less hushed than before.
Oh, now that is interesting. Very few possess both crimson eyes and the compulsion to call her Mistress.
Lysithea turns on the spot, glancing around to ensure none of the lingering drunken patrons are paying her any attention before strolling towards the alley's opening. She steps into the darkness, allowing it to swallow her whole for a few seconds before her eyes adjust to make out the spawn cowering before her. Aurelia. One of her father's more timid creations, the tiefling struggles to make direct eye contact with her even now.
She catches the scent of spilled blood in the air, all of a sudden, the quickly drying ambrosia leading to a body slumped against the wall a little further in. Aurelia shifts nervously on the spot, expression a picture of frantic distress. She's wringing her hands and pacing back and forth.
"Oh, Aurelia. Look at the mess you've made…" Lysithea comments darkly, unable to draw her eyes away from the bloodied corpse. "All that wasted blood…"
"I didn't drink from him! I couldn't! Master-"
"Forbid it, I know."
"Mistress, you have to believe me, I never meant to kill him!"
"Then what did you mean to do? Slash the man's throat open non-fatally? You can be naive for a vampire but not stupid."
"I was meant to bring him back for the Master! Now I have nothing to contribute! He'll be so angry! I'll… oh, the Master's going to-!" Aurelia seems close to hyperventilating, voice rising in volume as she tries to keep herself from spilling over. Reluctantly, Lysithea lays a hand on the spawn's shoulder, dragging her eyes away from the dead man and all that blood to focus on Aurelia's face.
"Aurelia, why did you kill this man?"
"He… well, I managed to convince him. He was going to come back with me to the palace, but then… uh, we were walking and… all of a sudden he decided he couldn't wait and shoved me into this alleyway. He'd been touchy from the start, but groping isn't unusual. I've never had anyone be this… this forceful before. He tried to-"
Lysithea holds a hand up to cut her off, having heard all she needed to hear. "Ah, a death richly deserved, then. Well done."
Aurelia blinks, her breathing going back to normal due to the severity of the shock. "What?"
"You're quite the little hero," Lysithea pats the girl's shoulder gingerly then steps away towards the body. She pointedly ignores the violence of Aurelia's flinch when she touches her. "Now, if you're done with the hysterics… we've got to deal with this. How fortunate you are to have killed so close to a well."
"We're going to-?"
"Make it look like the drunken fool simply fell in, of course."
The act of dragging the dead man between them through the winding back alleys of this part of town is simple enough. Less simple is the blood trail left behind. It would have to be dealt with, lest they lead anyone right to the body and any conclusions of foul play. Aurelia sniffles now and again, face still contorted with mounting fear.
"The master is going to lock me in the tomb for a year, just like Astarion. I'll starve! I'm going to starve."
"You're catastrophising again," Lysithea tries to inform her but Aurelia doesn't appear to be listening anymore. "It's very tiring."
"I can't believe I killed him… I don't know why I did that! It's not like I've never been-"
"What are you talking about? I killed this man," Lysithea interrupts, matter-of-factly. "He insulted me, disrespected the Szarr family name… wounded my pride, bruised my delicate ego. I sought vengeance for his slights, and… well, it led him to the bottom of a very deep well."
The corpse half slumps to the ground, Aurelia having let go of her end in further shock. "Mistress, you can't-"
"Of course I can. My name is Lysithea Szarr. I can do almost anything I please." A pretty little lie, one the spawn would know better than to question.
"But why would you do this?" A little rebellion in Aurelia now, a spark of something suspicious and defiant in her eyes. Good girl. "What's in it for you?" The effect is somewhat ruined when Aurelia catches sight of Lysithea's deepening frown and panics. "Mistress," she decides to tack on to be safe.
"If you've murdered this man, you'll undergo all kinds of torture, but if I've murdered this man… it'll be little more than a slap on the wrist. If I frame it right, Father might even be proud. The perfect Szarr heir wouldn't tolerate disrespect to the family name, would they? As far as Father knows, that's exactly what I've done. We can even say I had you assist me in cleaning up. The Szarr heir would delegate, too, I'm sure. I'll take the glory and you'll have the perfect excuse for not luring any lambs to slaughter. It's really quite simple, Aurelia. Even the likes of Petras could see the sense in such a plan. You're smarter than Petras… aren't you?"
Aurelia frowns. "Of course I am."
"Then come on. We have to finish cleaning up your mess."
With a heavy sigh, shoulders visibly rising and dropping with the force of it, Aurelia bends down to pick up the dead man's feet so they can hoist him back up between them. They travel in silence for a little while, nothing but the haunting coo of a nearby owl to listen out for.
"Thank you," Aurelia all but whispers, perhaps hoping the gratitude might get lost somewhere between her compulsion to express it and Lysithea's desire not to receive it.
"Don't mention it," Lysithea responds sternly, glaring at the tiefling through the gloom. "Seriously, don't."