Pre-Note: This chapter contains mentions of ritually murdered newborns and other mentions of infanticide.
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The thrill of the hunt sang to him.
With a quick sidestep, he tested his opponents defences with a quick slash towards the neck. His opponent quickly parried, Alric allowing his sword to get knocked to the side, not wanting to engage in a competition of strength with the young Vicar. Neither was he so foolish to think a sabre, no matter how arcanely fortified, could match a shortsword in a duel of strength.
Slipping under the Vicar's lunge, his sabre streaked like lighting, racing up towards his neck. Moving his chest minimally backwards, the Vicar retaliated by punching towards his liver.
Angling his chest, his free hand came out to grab the Vicar's sleave. Throwing the punch wide as he spun around him. Punishing with a quick slash towards his back. With inhuman instincts, the Vicar kicked his left foot against the marble flooring, spinning out of the slash by the smallest of margins. A thunderous blow crashing towards his head.
Parrying and leading the blade to the side, Alric answered with another lighting quick slash towards the neck. Clicking his teeth when instead of spilling blood, a golden aura appeared over his neck. Blocking the sword and allowing the Vicar a split moment to retaliate.
Breathing in, Alric stepped back. Quickening out of the blow, exhaling as his blade raced towards the Vicar's back. With beastly grace, the Vicar danced out of the blow. His repeating pistol resting on the Vicar's chest. The warm barrel of a pistol against his own.
"It would seem we are at an impasse, Vicar." Alric snarked, amber split pupils glaring down at him.
"Impasse? A checkmate you mean."
Breathing in, Alric pulled the trigger and quickened out of danger. Instincts screaming at him. Exhaling, the sound of thunder greeted him, followed by the rumble of an avalanche. The Vicar stood undaunted as two flattened quicksilver bullets clattered against the marble floor. Daring to take his attention of his opponent for a moment, he looked where he had been.
A giant statue of the castle's architect, towering and holding the roof on his shoulders, crashed into pieces before his very eyes. Guts, bones, and blood revealing themselves to the world. Alric could even see where the bullet stopped, powdered stone tickling onto the pool of crimson.
Breathing in, he quickened backwards. Exhaling into a lunge aimed at the Vicar's side. Yellow light flashing again as it protected him from harm. Rolling around the blow, letting it grace his side, the Vicar brought his sword up to chop of his head.
Slipping past the blow, Alric fished out a vial of numbing mist and cracked against the Vicar's skull. This time when he struck, the yellow barrier flickered. The sabre pushing through the yellow barrier as if it was thick resin. Leaving a shallow cut on the Vicar's neck.
"It would seem I were first to draw blood, Vicar." Alric snarked, testing if he could get some reaction from the young man. Knowing fully well how prideful young men tended to be.
"Shame you didn't poison the blade." The Vicar replied, running a finger over the thin line. A single drop of vigorous crimson tickling down before the nick scabbed over.
"Unfortunately we can't run the risk of ruining your blood. I'm afraid we will have to do this the proper way." Alric barbed, smirking to himself when he noticed the Vicar's eyebrow twitch.
"I still see no reason for you celebrate." The Vicar piqued, exhaling heavily while falling into a stance. "All that effort, for a nick. How often can you quicken? How long can you fight at your best? You are, after all, getting old."
Alric felt the corner of his mouth twitch, for a split moment the aches in his joints, the crick in his back that never disappeared, and the faint burning in his chest all demanded his attention. Anger burned at him, determination hardening. He coulndt afford to fumble here. Not when he could see the promising light of a brighter future already peeking through the clouds.
Yet no matter how briefly lost in thought he were, even a toddler could dodge the Vicar's thrust. All power and fury, no technique or fitness to speak off. The Vicar might have good footwork and a keen instinct, but his bladework was basic, for lack of proper word. Incorporating some quick feint's into his light slashes, he bade the Vicar on a quick and deadly dance.
Sparks flew between them as he grew more confident in his observation.
The Vicar moved tightly and effectively, his bladework tight with as little movement wasted as possible. But it was also basic. It was the basics movements of swordsmanship hammered and refined a hundred times over. It was efficient, quick and powerful, but predictable.
With a smirk, Alric slid under another blow. Dancing around the Vicar, interrupting the parry, slipping under the punch, and delivering three quick slashes to his back. The first cut through thick resin, the second through sirup, and the third through water. One nick, one cut, and one deep gash.
"Tut tut, Vicar dearest. Experience is no proper substitute for skill." He chided, sabre coming up to hit the shortsword on its bloodstained yellow fuller. Changing its trajectory and giving him one more shot for the throat. Breaking out of the strike an instant later when the sharp edges of the cross guard raced towards his head. Slipping under the bash, he backstepped while disengaging with another flourish aimed at the Vicar's belly. A curse on his tongue when the Vicar blocked the slash by bringing up his scabbard.
"Look at your feet." The Vicar quipped, nothing but cold and rational madness in his eyes.
The world stood still as his instincts screamed at him like never before.
Breathing in and trusting his blaring instincts, Alric threw himself backwards. Even in the half incorporeal state quickening offered he felt heat tickling at his nape. Forcing himself to move even faster, he raced towards the furthest statue. Hiding behind it and exhaling. Bracing as tongues of fire crashed against the statue. Cracks racing through it as crimson mist seeped out from the white stone.
"My dear-" The words dripped with nothing but irony. Coming out from behind the statue anger ignited, fiery wrath racing through his body. Burning away all signs of exhaustion and fatigue.
Once white marble scorched black. Curtains of imported emperor satin alight, what pieces of glass wasn't blown out melted. In the midst of what could only be described of a purgatory stood the Vicar untouched. Uncaringly of the dying fire around him he marched forward, cold cruelty in his eyes.
"- we are neither knights nor duellists." The Vicar finished. "We are hunters, or have you forgotten? What does your ability with a blade matter as long as your prey die? Or have you forgotten in your old age what it is to be a hunter?"
"Yes. Yes. YES!" Alric bellowed, looking up, through the roof and out into the never-ending cosmos. Arms spread wide open as he fell to his knees. Anger turning to righteous zeal, the Vicar's words ignored. Dying flames tried to reach for his pants, but Alric didn't care. Body shaking in ecstasy. "Can you feel it Vicar?!" he shouted in delight, feeling the attention of the Great Old ones on him. "The very gods themselves are watching. What honour."
"You really are mad." The Vicar spat, marching forward. Death in his eyes.
"Enlightened." Alric corrected; composure returning as he got back up on his feet. Cloak untouched by the dying fires around them. A black cloud of smoke obscuring the chandeliers and roof, the windows not reaching all the way to the top. "A lowborn cur like you could never understand the grandeur of our Great Ones. Your ignorance is pitiful really. Shame, had you just chosen to walk a different path, greatness would undoubtedly be yours."
Calling upon one of his bestowed gifts, the bullet passed harmlessly trough his ethereal form. Thunder assaulted his ears when he turned corporal. Ignoring the ringing, he ran his palm over the side of his blade. Sinister witchfire came alive around his blade.
"The Great One's are sympathetic in nature. They love us, like one would love one's own child." Alric explained gently to the lost child before him. His grievances with the man before him was many. His fury burned hot, righteous as it was. But he was a gentleman at heart, politeness dictated that the dead should know how they died, lest they fester with grudges. A courtesy he would give, for no other reason that he was highborn. "Diligently I have hunted in their Name's. And power beyond human comprehension they returned in kind. In this duel of fate, rest easy knowing your sacrifice will restore glory to our fallen people."
Breathing in, he quickened forward. Leaving a streak of blackish red behind him as he turned incorporeal. Only for the grips of reality to wrap around him and tear him out, turning him corporal again. His throat moving towards the Vicar's blade. Without a blink he brough forth another reward for his loyalty and prowess. An indescribable string appeared between them, lining up to pass through the Vicar's neck. Light and colour exploded before them, a visual cacophony appearing as the line danced. Jagged and impossible movements that seared his brain while also changing the string. Turning the never linear attack, into a mad prison of impossibly fast cuts.
The Vicar's eyes hardened for a moment, an invisible cloud of nothing appeared between them. Swallowing the visual cacophony in an instant. Killing the spell and giving him the barest hint of backlash.
Giving his lunges some rest, he brough forth another gift. His knee's screamed at him, pushing his body he forced himself to pirouette under the oncoming blade. His free arm coming up to brush over the Vicar's wrist. Following through the movement, he hooked his foot around the Vicar's ankle and let gravity do the rest. The Vicars impressive bulk doing nothing as he was sent flying through the air completely weightless.
Chasing after him, the cloud of nothingness appeared around the Vicar again. Eating away the weightlessness. Crashing back first into the marble floor. Swinging his sabre with more ferocity than fitness, Alric hacked down at the downed Vicar. Taking the golden opportunity for what it was. Cracking his head against the floor after the Vicar kicked his feet from under him. In a split second he turned himself weightless, slamming his hands against the scorched marble. Using the counterforce to launch himself heavenwards. Thunder echoed a second later.
Seeking refuge in the thick cloud of smoke that clung to the roof, Alric reached out. Running his arm through it, giving it weight. The blanket of smoke coming down like a divine hammer.
Tasting blood on his tongue, Alric swallowed. The strain making it momentarily difficult to breath.
Without thinking, he jammed the tip of his blade into the roof and pushed away. A line of crimson crashing into the roof. Catching the chain of a chandelier and spinning around it. He frowned when he saw nothing happening. Launching himself upwards to another chandelier when a sickening blackish-green shot from the quickly thinning smoke.
Licking his lips, Alric shuddered in excitement. His chest burned, his heart hammered, his body screamed at him. But he could barely feel anything trough the excitement he felt. Cutting the effect of the weightlessness, he grabbed the chain and dug his boots against the metal. Twisting his hips and aiming it. Smashing his sabre into the chain, his excitement surged as he rode the chandelier down.
The Vicar greeting him with a half-deranged smile, gold surrounding him as he stood steadfast. His sword cutting through half the chandelier and racing towards him. Passing harmlessly through him as he turned incorporeal. Blood tickling down his nose, another mist of nothingness surrounding them. The ethereal roar of a beast ripping it to pieces.
"Tut tut, Vicar." Alric taunted, smirking as another slash whiffed trough him. "You must think little of me. I earned this after hunting the horse-man beast. It will take more than what little cantrips you are capable of to cancel it."
The Vicar didn't answer, split amber pupils only staring at him with inhuman intensity. His frown easing, a cruel smirk splitting his lips. "I thought you nobles were too proud to boast about incomplete wonders." The Vicar's smirk turned malicious. "You can't hurt me, can you? I can't hurt you, and you can hurt me while incorporeal." Smiling wider, pearly white teeth shone at him. "You didn't kill it, did you? You hunted the beast yes, but you failed in killing it. Your pact was only half fulfilled. So your patron decided to give you something half complete."
No matter how much the words galled his pride, Alric didn't fall for the obvious bait. Only rising a brow in challenge, a smirk of his own on his lips. A dance of impossible colours and movements exploded between them. The mist of nothingness coming up just a moment too late.
With a heavy thud, an arm fell onto the scorched marble. A golden pendant shining through its clutched fingers.
"You have gotten predictable." The Vicar snarked icily, sinister witchfire reflecting in his eyes, his blade blocking the sabre. Even as witchfire ate at the metal, neither the blade nor him gave. Only staring defiantly towards his helmet. "And old. How long can you keep going? Switching between 'gifts' as you call them, must be tiring, no?"
"For a man with one arm, you talk with an unusual amount of bravado." Alric countered. Expertly ignoring how exhausted his body was. Between the two of them, he was undoubtedly the better combatant. His swordsmanship exquisite, his quickening second nature, and his divine gifts allowing him to effortlessly fight beast and monsters towering over him. Yet sweat raced down his back, his lungs begged for air, his heart hammered in his chest. No matter how much adrenaline raced through him. He was face to face with one unavoidable fact.
He was old.
Had he just been younger, the Vicar would be long since dead. Biting down on his pride, he broke the deadlock. Quickening backwards, the Vicar not following him. Instead moving protectively to protect his arm.
"I'm afraid we will have to keep the Great One's waiting for just a bit longer. However, it's time for the opening act to come to a close." Alric goaded. Shimmers of soft light enveloping him. The mist of nothingness instantly raced towards him eagerly swallowing the madly dancing light that was conjured before it. "Till next time." He snarked, disappearing into white light.
Appearing in his own personal quarters.
The second he was safe; he felt all the exhaustion of his protesting body scream at him simultaneously. Pushing through it was unwavering determination, he marched up and threw his cabinet open. Pulling out a special concoction and downing it. Jamming a vial of blood into his right thigh, he breathed easily.
Falling to one knee, hand clutching his chest. Each beat sending a jolt of pain trough him. The blood and concoction slowly began working their magic, easing the burning in his lungs and removing the pains in his joints.
"One more hunt." Alric whispered to himself. Pulling himself up and drawing strength from the mantra. "One more hunt. One more hunt. One more hunt." He chanted under his breath. Marching forward, mind swirling with plans to handle the Vicar.
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Jaune knelt protectively over his severed arm, fully anticipating the Viscount to come leaping out the second he let his guard down. Eyes darting between shadows, heart thundering in his ears, the fire in his chest threatening to swallow him whole.
Deciding to throw out a bait, he clacked his right molars twice. In an instant the fire in his chest disappeared together with the bloodlust that tinted his vision. The hole in his chest ached terribly, leaving him feeling hollow and weak.
"Long live aura." Jaune praised under his breath, sheathing his blade and running his fingers over his neck. Knowing fully well that it was the only reason he wasn't sporting a split open neck. It had felt like fighting a ruthless mixture of Pyrrha and Ruby. Every attack pushing him towards the edge. He had been outclassed in every aspect of the fight.
Never had Jaune wanted to go back in time so much and hug his past self. He had used up every cast of dispel, but it had been an even trade in his eyes. The dancing light-blade thingy had cut through both his aura and arm like it was nothing. A single moment had stood between him living and him recreating the resident evil corridor scene.
"I need to get more negation spells." Jaune swore under his breath. His studies into the Reanimation aspect had been out of necessity, with only two blood vials on him he needed more insurance on him for when shit hit the fan. When it came to offensive rituals, it was a mixed bag with most unable to be called offensive in nature.
One ritual could reanimate the aging process, constant accumulation of subtle damage to the smallest part of his being made it so he coulndt use it to make himself technically immortal. However, reanimating the aging process far enough back would result in them leaving a sperm and an ovum behind. The problem was that it simply isn't cost effective to hold a ritual that take weeks to prepare and days to perform, to kill a single person.
He knew an 'offensive' ritual in the reanimation aspect, unfortunately it was a fifty-fifty chance the target would be unharmed. The spell only reanimating a sickness or illness the target had had in their past. So he could return the cancer to someone who had undergone chemo, or nothing worse than a cold could return.
"But I don't need offensive, do I." He mumbled to himself, throwing a look to the crumbled statue and the hole in the wall. While he had no magical firepower, he had firepower in spades. The charred marble and the ruined hall were testaments to that. "I already have offense and survivability, control, or negation would round out the edges wonderfully."
Peeling the sleeve of his severed arm like it was a banana, Jaune began the delicate task that was sewing it back on so he could properly reattach it with magic. Biting of a bit of thread, he threaded the needle with practiced motions. Even if only having one arm was making the process slower than he liked.
A whistle of appreciating escaped him when the needle easily pierced through skin. "I don't know what you did to the needle, Iosefka. But thank you." Having said his praises, he began the daunting task of sewing his arm back on alone. He was five poorly made stitches in when he felt a shiver racing up his back.
Looking around, a hundred, maybe a thousand, spectral arms rose from the scorched marble. One silver lady pulled herself up, then a second, a third, and Jaune didn't wait a moment longer. Darting up and running towards the closest exit. Pocketing the needle and tearing the stiches. Clubbing the closest silver lady to death with his severed arm. Holding it around the wrist and smashing the severed part of his shoulder into its spectral face.
Bringing up his aura, a canopy of mournful screeches smashed into his back as multiple silver ladies caught fire. Jumping through the crack in the wall, the winter chill bit into his face. Hanging in the air for a moment, he crashed feet first into a now dead garden. Winter's chill long having choked live from red lilies, red roses, red poppies, red amaryllis.
"Checks out." Jaune nodded to himself, not having expected anything less of the Vilebloods. Feeling the spectral chill going down his back again, he legged it. Knowing when to pick his battles. While he could easily win against an army of ghosts when they couldn't touch him. It was surprisingly draining to exorcise the spirits. And no matter how large his aura reserves, he didn't think he would be capable to exorcise the grudges of a literal army.
Gravel crunched under his feet, the hinges on the iron gate screamed momentarily in progress when he ran right through it. Dodging under a stone sceptre, he rolled his eyes. Inwardly thankful that the living statues coulndt move. Running his eyes over the rooftops, he barrelled forward. Not wanting to give the Viscount a chance to come swooping down.
"That begs the question, what would happen to me if The Viscount were to succeed?" Jaune asked, pushing past a shudder as he slid around a corner. "From what I know, the Dream is Divine in nature. But what would happen to me if I were to be ritually sacrificed to another Divine being?" He shuddered just at the thought. A hundred little voices screaming at him inside his mind that continuing this line of though was bad. "Would it spark conflict between the two Divine beings? What was previously 'theirs' becoming something shared. Would the contract break? Would I die for real?"
Sidestepping, he smacked a statue in the face with his arm. Smearing blood over it instead of cracking it open like he had intended. Instead of whaling at it like he felt like, he ran past it. Knowing he would come back to clean this place up when the Viscount was dead, and he had reattached his arm.
Throwing a wild look around, he found himself more than a little bit lost. In a split moment he decided to follow the gravel path towards the lonely spire, wanting to get a wantage point so he could get his bearings. With his eyes set on a goal, he picked up the pace. A quick glance behind having him break out into a full sprint. Being ripped apart by an army of hungry ghosts the last thing he wanted. Especially since they were rapidly gaining ground.
"Come on Jaune, you are the king of dumb ideas. Think of something." He chastised himself, shoulders sinking as a feeling of disgust settled in his gut. Feeling the spectral chill grow stronger, he knew he coulndt waste a moment. Biting into his severed hands thenar space, he wrapped his severed arm over his shoulders. Prying open the fingers before holding a special molotov against the golden locket.
"I swear to whatever afterlife you believe in, that if you don't have a way to make this molotov holy, or something like that. I will defy Death and come back to drag you down with me." He hissed at the locket. "I am not dying alone when you hitched a ride on my body."
Had he any idea what the locket was? No. But it was quasi-sentient, had its own beliefs, and chose him. He could find out what it was, if he survived tonight.
A golden glow shone from the locket, making the already glowing concoction heat up even more. Chucking it over his shoulders, he ran faster than ever before. For a split moment it was silent, then fire consumed the entire garden. The shrieks of a thousand burning ghosts drowned out by the ravenous crackling of fire.
"I saw that going differently in my mind." Jaune swore under his breath, using his severed arm to beat out the fire clinging to his back. Swearing again as small portions off the wound started sizzling. Lodging his arm under his chin, he hit the side of Crocea Mors against it. Not wanting for the wound to scab or cauterize. His body could probably handle it, but having scabs inside his arm while it healed was not something he wanted to experience.
Three spectral ladies slammed into his aura from behind, catching fire the moment they touched. Again leaving his aura dented. Throwing a look behind him, a whistle of appreciation escaped him. The frozen garden, as beautifully sombre it had been, was transformed into a fiery hellscape. What ghosts were left sinking into the ground, hateful ghostfire reflecting off their eyes.
Slowing his pace, he looked up the towering spire. While it wasn't secluded, it stood alone in what he could only reckon as the queen's garden. Breaking the lock, he pushed open the heavy wooden door. Feeling as if an invisible force was fighting against him the entire time.
The entrée was barren, only decorated with wilted flowers, long burnt-out candles, and a single large painting of a woman. She sat on a throne alone, resting her palms in her lap, while surrounded by royal knights. Ghastly pale, with blue eyes that mirrored his own, white hair fell like a serene waterfall. Jaune was certain the dress she wore cost more than he had ever owned. She would have been beautiful hadn't in been for the look in her eyes.
Moving past the entre, he found himself by a stairwell that went both ways. Fishing out the needle and thread, he connected his severed arm to the shoulder with some long threads. The feeling of stitching his own wound ticklish almost. When he had five rough stitches he pulled the thread, the skin almost tearing from the strain as the thread's held on for dear life.
Looking around where he was going, he ignored the portraits and dead flowers in favour to press his cut arm against his body. Mentally activating the first of a few spells. The first was regeneration, overclocking his bodies' regeneration while casting Panacea again to begin knitting flesh, bone, and nerves back together. Weaving quick and dirty connections, he finished up with casting refresh. Instantly renewing his body past the point of needing healing. Feeling returned to his fingers together with the golden locket reaching out for him again.
In under a moment, he was back to top condition. His aura reserves completely filled up, earlier exhaustion washed away, the mental strain of fighting the Viscount digested. The only thing to prove his deadly duel with the Viscount was the nick in Crocea Mors from the Viscount's witchfire enchanted blade, his used spell slots and his two spiced up molotovs.
Drawing his blade with renewed determination, he marched up the staircase with a confidence he hadn't felt moments prior.
It didn't take long to scale the tower, the last door ornate with golden decorations depicting the 'Great One's'. Monstrous, majestic, incomprehensible, and inhuman were all fitting words to describe them. Pushing the door open, the feeling of an invisible force pushing back returned. Flaring his aura, he forced the door open. Setting foot in an elegant private study.
The stank of blood permeated the air. Walking around, Jaune's mind was swirling. His spirituality churning as he took in all the details around him. Quickly and efficiently categorizing everything as he explored. Carefully opening a door and stepping into a bedroom.
The bed was gigantic, it's sheet's and pillows all different shades of red. A vanity set stood beside the window. Making his way over, the mirror cracked the moment he looked into it. A thousand versions of his eye staring back at him.
"The Queen's room? But that doesn't make sense. Why would she live outside the castle?" He mussed, stepping back into the foyer. Marching over to the desk and ruffling trough the papers there. Orders for deployment of knights, a missive for the quartermaster to go over inventory, multiple invitations just like his, a list of names and interests of ambitious subordinates. "A place to work? Or was this a private retreat? A way for her to momentarily escape the duties of the crown?"
He didn't know, even with his enchanted ability to deduce he came up with nothing. While he could say for certain that this room, or the entire tower, belonged to royalty. That didn't explain the other questions he had.
Taking a deep breath, bracing himself for the worst, Jaune grabbed the doorhandle too the last door and opened. Instantly the stink of blood crashed into him like a wall of hot air. Stepping into the bathroom, disgust settled into his stomach like a slithering ball of worms.
The second he laid his eyes on the yew embedded into the porcelain bathtub he knew what this tower was for. The marble tiles around the bathtub, once white, was stained pink, the same colour as his blood. Stepping up to the tub of rolling blood, ice settled in his stomach.
He knew what ritual this was, even if it was a perverted form of even darker magic.
"So the current Queen of Cainhurst is the first Queen." Jaune muttered with disgust, knowing what the Viscount had planned for Violet should he get hold of her. "The Bath of Renewal is already malicious enough for a lifetime, bathing in the blood of innocent virgins to prolong one's own life and beauty. It was already cruel enough, why make it worse." He muttered as he took in the cruelty on display before him.
The ritual before him was in one way simpler than the Bath of Renewal, but it was no less cruel. Only instead of prolonging one's life and beauty, this bath would consume the sacrifice on a complete and spiritual level. The caster would wake from the bath completely changed, having shed their skin and taken on the form of the victim. Knowing everything about them, even their deepest darkest fears that the victim themselves was ignorant off.
"I'm going to kill them." Jaune swore, staring into the hundred crying faces that rolled in the blood bath. Grabbing the edge of the, he crumbled the yew, breaking the circle. While the effect of the Bath was permanent once complete, the dozen spirits exploded out of the pool. Crying tears of blood as they flew through him. Disappearing down into his shadow. An invisible weight settled on his shoulders, while over a dozen pairs of eyes looked up from his shadow. Pleading at him to avenge them. A dozen more promised to tear his soul to pieces should he break his word.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he marched out the foyer, wondering if he should use his last molotov now. Or spare it for the basement should he stumble onto something worse.
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"This is a dumb idea." Violet muttered under her breath. Having long since thrown away her makeshift torch as she hid in the darkness. Utilising everything she had learned from playing hide and seek when growing up. Just this time the reward for being found was a long and painful death.
"Psspsspsspss~ Oh where are you~ Come out kitty kitty~ Don't hide in the shadow. Come out so I can turn your every inside outside~ Just like I will do for your Queen~" A sickly sweet voice echoed trough the streets. Out from a corner came a man dressed in a clerical robe fitting the descriptions of the zealous fools her Father had warned her about.
Moonlight bounced off his golden conical helm, the tarnished gold swallowing most of the reflections, but some beams of light lit up the area around him. Even if it was weaker and flightier than a match. He carried a giant wheel on his shoulders, the spooks switched out with blades.
'I wonder what Miss Nikos would think of the weapon?' She thought idly, the world tinted blue as she snuck around like a rat. The wheel crashed down like the hammer of a God where she had previously hidden. Splintering the wood and crushing the mouse into paste.
"Neither gods nor blood will save you tonight!" The man shouted again. Fervours glee falling of his every word. "Under a hunters moon, wrong will be made right, and the righteous will be victorious at last! Don't try and hide! The light of us righteous will come and deliver you to death's waiting arms!"
Silently creeping along the walls, Violet did what she did before. Sticking to the shadows and only darting over the streets when he wasn't looking. Her heart hammered in her chest; adrenaline raced through her. She had never felt so alive before. She had never felt so in control before. A strong arm raced down from above, grabbing her around the neck so hard her aura flared and pulled her up.
"I~ see~you." The mad man cooed with glee. Even through the mask he wore, it felt as if he looked straight into her eyes.
'But I didn't do anything wrong?' The thought raced trough her for a moment, before adrenaline and her survival instincts flared to life. Her misericorde flashed through the night. Biting deeply into his arm and forcing him to let go of her.
The second her feet touched the ground she ran like she had never ran before. Not caring in the slightest where her feet brought her as long as he wasn't there.
"I know that coat wretch." The mad man behind seethed, barrelling after her, wheel held high. "It belongs to a man better than all of us! I will not let you sully what memory I have of my friend."
Picking up the pace even more, the world turned deeper and deeper blue as she nicked a robe with her misericorde. Vaulting over a barrel and rolling it behind her. Old oil pots were thrown over her shoulder, followed by her dad's hand lantern. Everything she passed, she used to slow her pursuer down for even a moment.
Turning a corner, cutting through an alleyway, racing through a hole in the wall, only to hastily having to toss herself to the side when the executioner's wheel came crashing down.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Every breath felt like daggers. 'How?' the thought resonated in her mind. Her mind blank.
Instinct saved her. The second she spotted the arm moving towards her, she bolted. Racing through the abandoned township without a clue of what to do. "I want my dad." She whispered, instantly shaking her head as she jumped and grabbed a rope, kicking a lever. Letting it swing her up onto a roof.
Her boots landed on the wood. Slipping and sending her sprawling. Her body screamed as he twisted and turned in the air. Slamming her misericorde into the wood, it impaled itself. Giving her half a moment to catch herself.
"Come down come down and we can make this easy!" The mad man shouted up at her. Standing fearlessly in the street. Never taking her eyes of her.
"Are your knees aching after a bit of exercise, old man?" Violet snarked back, running on nothing but adrenaline and fear. Every inhibition she had thrown out of the window for a chance to survive. She had aura, but she didn't want to test how many blows it could take. She had weapons, but she wasn't certain she could kill him now that he was aware of her. The only way she saw herself surviving was either finding her dad, or making a big enough mess that her dad would find her.
"You are getting the cross for that one." The mad man shot back. Venom coating his tongue.
"But I already crossed the street." Violet quipped, reaching for her pistol. Before the mad man could sprout more madness, she pulled and shot. The pistol cracked; the sound of a bell echoed through the square.
The golden cone lancing itself from her pursuers head, warping badly and landing in a puddle of mud. The man fell to his knees, clutching his ears as blood trickled through his fingers. Wretched howls of pain rang from him.
Before Violet could reload her pistol, a form shot out from the building she stood on. Divebombing the man, exploding into a shower of blood as it touched him.
"Oh no." Violet whispered under her breath, not wasting a second longer. Jumping onto another roof, she ran for her life. Quickly making it down to the street as more and more forms shoot out from the dark. Malicious giggling rang through the air as a little monster divebombed her from the air.
Dodging out, she caught a glimpse of what attacked her. It looked like a macabre fusion of a child and a bat. With a too big head, too small arms, and a face filled to the brim with teeth. It carried a blood red sack between it's legs. Exploding into a rain of blood, flesh and gore the second it impacted the street skull first.
Throwing herself to the side, not wanting to be splashed with blood. She caught herself in a roll and lunged up, running like she had never ran before. The wet thuds of divebombing monsters hot on her trail.
Looking around wildly, she bit down on the little voices in the back of her mind and instead threw herself into a shattered window. Seeking refuge in the darkness, Violet allowed herself to breath easily. She could hear the giggles of children echo outside, followed by small feet running on the roof.
Sneaking deeper into the house, she carefully pushed a door open, breathing a sigh of relief when it didn't scream. Catching herself from faceplanting down the little staircase, the smell of blood and hay tickled her nose.
"Where am I?" Violet whispered under her mouth, freezing in her tracks when the wet sound of chewing echoed from further down the hallway. Carefully stepping back up the staircase, she closed the door behind her. What grain of hope she had dying in her chest, when a dozen beady red eyes looked down on her. Childlike giggling echoing through the room.
The army of child-bat's laughter quickly dying at the same moment Violet felt a hot breath race down her back. Jumping to the side, a giant horse stepped through the door. Blood dripping from it's mouth. One burning red orb stared down at her beside one of cold ice.
'What would dad do in a situation like this?' The thought came quickly, but she moved quicker. The world a deep icy blue as she jumped onto the horses back. Clamping her leg's around it's neck as she held on for dear life. The horse smashing through the wall as if it was hay. Trampling the child-bat's under it's hoofs.
"This was a stupid idea." Violet mumbled under her breath, the horse breaking into full gallop down the street. Before Violet knew what happened they were flying through the air. Hoofs stamping down on the mad man's shoulders, crushing bone and flesh as he was pushed down. The horse gave him a quick back kick to the head before it continued galloping wildly down the street.
With another jump they flew over crackling flames, the township of Cainhurst burning again. From the corner of her eye, she saw tongues of fire further away. Knowing that flame tended to follow her father she breathed in relief. Only to be stumped with confusion. 'But how do I get there?'
She didn't have to wonder for long before the horse she hugged for dear life, threw it's head to the side and galloped with all it's might.
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"Maybe, just maybe… the executioners were too kind when it came the massacre of Cainhurst." The words bounced hollowly of the walls. The heavy smell of blood and rot permeated the room, incense burners had long since run cold, the ritual candles were nothing but stumps.
But Jaune coulndt bring himself to care about anything but newborn he carried in his arms. It's chest split open with both heart and lungs extracted, it's eyes and mouth sewn shut. It wasn't even a week old. Even as he cradled the murdered babe, Jaune still felt it's shivering spirit reach out for warmth. Having been trapped in darkness for only gods know how long.
His golden locket burned in his hand. He felt his shadow churn, the spirits who had given themselves to him screaming at the terrible injustice. Noting burned worse than the knowledge he learned and the disgust he felt.
Cradling the newborn to his chest, he looked around. Nine gold cauldrons stood as pillars around the ritual altar. Each cauldron having nine tall silver candle holders around them. Small heart's, kidneys, livers and lungs, moving and squirming tied around the candle holders, the heart's beating as if still alive.
"The centre is null, with nine nines." Jaune mumbled under his breath, not surprised in the slightest when nine babies floated in the golden cauldron. They moved and squirmed as if alive, their chest cut open and all their vital organs missing. Impaled on the silver candle holders surrounding them. "Nine is completion, the finality of one cycle and the beginning of another. Nine nines amplify the effect."
Reaching into the golden cauldron, he caught himself before his fingers touched the blood. Knowing, that no matter how much he simply wanted to scoop the babies up and carry them, freely touching ritual components, even if the ritual was cast, could have disastrous effects.
"I'll free you." Jaune promised, for a moment not knowing how to feel when the floating babies wiggled in childish excitement. The babe he carried in his arms, reaching up and holding his finger with all the might in it's little body. "You too, little one. None of you will be trapped in this purgatory any longer."
Bringing up his aura, Jaune gently washed it over the babe. Black tears streaked down from the babies sewn eyes as it went slack. Not dead, still trapped in limbo between life and death. It's spirit reaching for him with all it's might. Basking in the light of his soul, warmth returning to it's freezing form after years.
Making sure the babe was at ease, Jaune scoured the ritual chamber. Disgust rising the more the took in. 'How can people be so cruel?' he wondered, seeing the ingredients used. The candles made out of human fat, while the wicks were made from human hair. Seven female virgins, ranging from six years old to twenty were crucified upside down. Black blood ran from their eyes, falling into the carved runes. Coming closer to them, they were empty of mind and of soul. The only thing lingering of who they had been in life was the painful screams that echoed from nothing around them.
"The cosmos was breached." He mumbled, a lingering taste hiding in the air not to dissimilar to the dream. All his spirituality working together with his knowledge to break down everything and teach it to him. The more he learnt, the more the ball of disgust grew and crawled through him. Knowing intimately that he would be seeing red if he hadn't separated that part out of him. Yet, the anger and disgust paled in comparison to the fear that griped him.
"No." Jaune spat. Pleading with his spiritual knowledge to be wrong. Carefully stepping over the salt line, he looked at the ritual altar. The singular fact everything he knew screamed at him forcing him to his knees. Tears of silver streaming down his face as he looked on the altar, two familiar crescent moons carved in stone and filled with blood.
The ritual before him a perversion of another ritual he knew. It was a fertility ritual, giving blessings of fertility and higher yield. This perversion was the same, it increased fertility of the caster through the divinity of a higher being.
"But the ritual was prepared incorrectly." He whispered, running his finger over his family's crest. Who was as much a rune of protection as it was their crest. Had it been turned upside down; the ritual would have been successful. But it wasn't carved properly, instead 'shielding' the caster from the ritual effect and twisting it to something else.
"Instead of a ritual to birth a child, it became a ritual to summon a child." Jaune whispered, all the doubts he had about why and how he was in Yharnam laid to rest. "I guess my semblance isn't a semblance." He continued, existential dread setting in.
A gentle poke broke him out of his rapidly spiralling mind, looking down, Jaune kissed his forehead. Ignoring the taste of blood on his lips, he smiled down. "How would you be the first of your brothers, and sisters, to be able to see?" He whispered, taking out a little knife to remove the stitches on over his eyes.
"I'll be back for all of you. I promise." Jaune swore, the spectres in his shadow making it stretch to encompass the entire room. Giving all the babes a feeling of warmth and protection. Marching up the staircase the baby in his arms turned to blood and mush, appearing back with it's fellows. Chained to the basement, unable to leave.
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Note: The skill check is here. It's the Dps vs the Tank.
Note: There is a reason why I'm careful about handling Aura. It's essentially just a health bar over your health bar. But in Jaune's case, his base health bar is already large given his vigour investments. It doesn't help that his aura is large and growing.
Note: The hardest part with this chapter was trying to not make it a Power vs Power scenario, where larger and more destructive spells were cast. Instead I think I managed to catch the feeling of mind games between two equally as experienced magicians going at it.
Note: Should I have changed used The Vicar and Jaune more interconnecting, underbudget. But at the same time, Alric is only capable of seeing Jaune as the Vicar. He doesn't care who 'Jaune' is, only that he carries the Vicar heirloom marking him as the current Vicar.
Note: Jaune bringing a whole new meaning to 'armed combat'. I will see myself out now.
Note: The thing about the Dream and maybe dying for real is added to add extra tension. Jaune, and everyone are unreliable narrators. But it serves as a very real and possible way to forcefully and externally interact with the Dreams ability to resurrect it's hunters.
Last Note: And the reason for why Jaune is in Yharnam is finally made clear. Since the start I had a thousand ideas about why, some good, some bad, but I always wanted there to be a reason. Not just settling for 'it is because the narrative demands it' or 'it's a goldfinger, so it doesn't need explaining'. Everything in the story have meaning, some actions more than others. And Jaune is very much a victim of a botched ritual.