Chapter Text
It is the year 1350, and the lord in question is one King Leofrick of Styria, or so is his name and title this century -there had been so many and he had sat on the throne for a comparable number. He was not Styria's first king, certainly not the first vampire to assume her highest seat, but he is easily the longest to do so, and he carries the fact in his demeanor from the way he stands to the way he stares to the way he sits. Everything about his personage declares I am Styria, and he would demand in countless ways that such strength and longevity be recognized.
However, he was not playing that particular facet tonight, which is an exceptional rarity, especially in view of his councilor and his wife. The little pressure of Carmilla's presence isn't unwarranted, but it has an uncomfortable novelty to it; he had encouraged her to participate in matters of state, which included this, but it was still a stress he could do without. Now, when he is far from his usual place of security, now when he doesn't have every advantage.
He, and the future of Styria, were at the mercy of fate, and all he could do was hope he had the means to safeguard his kingdom until it could recover. The Plague had ravaged the entire continent, nearly wiping out the whole of Styria's human population, leaving the vampires teetering on the verge of a famine. They left in droves, even from the king's own army, and that left Leorfrick with painfully few options as to how to maintain his power and defend his borders from all the rumors battering at them from every side. Rumors, he realized with a snarl, that were far too true for his liking.
Rumors of four small armies, each one having splintered off from the Mongol horde that had been gone for nearly a century now, moving from country to country and taking what they wanted to leave little else in their wake. Four small armies that had, until most recently, left Styria mostly alone, save for the wildest reaches of frontier. But they had also kept Styria's enemies busy during the worst of the plague, so it wasn't the worst scenario. Not yet. And he means to keep the worst at bay, even if it's just for a short while, even if it means curtailing his strength and longevity in order to extend an olive branch or two.
The generals of those four armies are presently seated across from the king, his wife, and his councilor; three humans, two that are clearly of Mongol descent and the other one the king couldn't place. The fourth is a vampire, no obvious attempts made to hide the fact, and is an absolute bulwark of a woman like he had never before seen. Easily twice his size and more than two heads taller, Leofrick can't even see the back of the chair for the solid breadth of her frame beneath armor and leather and furs. Bright green eyes shamelessly study him, devoid of any intent other than inspection, and the king finds himself the most wary of her. Also unlike the other generals, she has two others at her left and right hand. They aren't vampires, though they are fair-skinned and fair haired, but they are far from human with eyes too bright and ears too sharp. One of them had already introduced themselves as Commander Welsh -from the Isles he thinks by her accent, claiming to be acting as an interpreter. The king spies an incredible, cruel scar across the throat of the other woman, and doesn't expect her to say anything at all.
For the time being the negotiations are going well. Leofrick is confident in the generosity of his offer and in his assumptions that these heathens will take it with little encouragement. Their sort are all the same, after all, they all want the same thing; wealth of some form, something that can keep them and their men fat and happy, and Leofrick sees that they are offered a considerable assortment to choose from. Land, gold, weapons, even the hands of courtiers would be extended in the form of thorough contracts to each of the generals, theirs to claim after an agreed upon "term of good faith" as the king called it.
"And how long would you be sayin' this good faith lasts, your majesty?" Commander Welsh asks. "As nae everyone here lives as long as you."
"Well, naturally, you are welcome to bequeath these documents to your successors if need be, but I would consider twenty years to be a...reasonable concession." He chooses his words and tone very carefully, knowing now is not the time to demand, but to suggest.
Commander Welsh studies him for but a second before turning to her general and -Leofrick assumes- repeats his answer to her in her own language. Those green eyes don't leave him for a second, and he spies the pitch pupils flexing with something he cannot discern. They continue to stare right back at him as she answers her commander with a word that sounds dismissive, but then they break away as she addresses the other generals in a language that sounded nothing like the one she had just been speaking. They look at her, make equally dismissive seeming gestures, and then all eyes are back on the king.
"My araban is satisfied with that." Commander Welsh responds with a nod. "The others as well."
"Excellent."
"The only condition is that we leave you and your folk be? Even those in the wilds?"
"Even those in the wilds." though he couldn't give a shit about the wilds. There weren't enough humans out there to sustain a fledgling vampire, much less the entirety of his house, but they still needed protection, time to repopulate and peace to thrive. "Although you are more than welcome to harass my plethora of neighbors."
The king smiles as Commander Welsh laughs and relays the message with a toothy grin, giving him full gauge of her numerous fangs and a better idea of what she is which makes his own grin die a little. It fades a little further when the araban only smirks, still studying him closely. Or...was it something else she's looking at now, just passed his shoulder? He can't imagine anything more important in this room other than himself, so the notion is fleeting.
"And all any of us have to do is bring you these papers? You'll honor them?"
"My word is my bond, commander."
"Aye, but I've heard bigger promises from bigger men," there's teeth showing in the cautious admission, "with respect, majesty."
He feels the muscles in his jaw tighten against the reflexive urge to snarl. He swallows it down, the motion subtle and hidden beneath what he believes is a sympathetic, understanding smile. "Perhaps you are far too accustomed to the idea of bartering with empty promises, but here in Styria I do not make such promises lightly. I do so with every expectation that I will be held accountable in the rare event that my virtue wanes."
"You mean we get to take your head?"
He almost laughs, but he resists on the risk of coming off as insulting instead of amused, something he is notorious for. "I mean you will have the opportunity to try, yes."
"An' what iffin' you're not the king come twenty years? Mayhaps your lovely wife be the one in your lofty chair?" Red and amber eyes break away from the king for a split second, regarding the queen for just as long before coming back.
Now Leofrick does chance a small laugh, low and soft, subdued. "Should Carmilla rule Styria in that time, I hope she would maintain the good faith of the crown in my stead." He half turns to his right. "Wouldn't you, my dear?"
Carmilla's alabaster features shift almost unnaturally into a smile that is obviously empty. Something worn for the sake of appearances and little else. "Absolutely, my lord."
Leofrick knows she's putting on a show for their guests -a poor one- and means to address it later, filing it away in the back of his mind. "Otherwise, commander, I can't imagine any other way to assure you and your comrades of my sincerity."
"I suppose you can't." her answer sounds...forgiving, and she happily watches the flicker of dismay on the vampire's aged face. "Us old folks run out of ideas eventually, don't we? Although, perhaps you'd be willin' to offer the lot of us the comfort of your palace for just the day, while we wait for these fancy documents of yours? One last mote of your incredible generosity to settle the truth of your intent."
He wants to say no, his knee-jerk desire is to send them on their way as politely as possible, but it's obvious this commander has been part of negotiations before and knew how to weaponize language almost as well as himself. There's no acceptable reason to not indulge them, none that couldn't be twisted into a slight and bring their collective military might to his walls. So he simply grins and bears it. "It would be my pleasure, commander, my staff is at your full disposal."
She nods graciously, her smile toothy and self-satisfied. "Many thanks, majesty. You're the perfect host."
All the while the negotiations have been proceeding, the king's newly appointed head of the household has been quietly observing, listening, and drafting the contract. She means for it to be finished before the meeting adjourns, that these warlords might be assured of what they are agreeing to before resources are committed to making the copies of the official document.
The Lady Morana has only called Styria home for a number of weeks now, but she brought with her approximately two-thousand years of experience from across the known world. She is unashamedly brilliant, cunning, calculating, but none of those traits were necessary to understand what she sees unfolding at the king's council table. It is a tired, well worn display that she recognizes from even her earliest years, and it fails to worry or impress her as much now as it had then.
Although, she would be lying if she said she was completely disinterested in the matter.
Morana would casually, quickly, lift her eyes from the draft to regard their guests, and if anyone had been keeping an eye on her in turn, they would see that her attention is terribly biased towards the only vampire aside from herself and her benefactors. At Morana's initial, brief study, she is wholly marveled by the woman's sheer size, not entirely certain she had ever seen anyone of such dimensions before. Another fleeting glance and she makes note of the sharp features of her face, that proud chin and equally sharp ears -one missing a bit just above the surprisingly soft-looking lobe. The third time she actually catches the araban's eyes, feeling the slightest charge as that verdant gaze is framed in wild raven hair and a heavy brow. The heathen stares right back, unyielding, almost challenging and -dare she think it- intrigued? Morana's expression remains unreadable, but she can't ignore the smallest... something.
As much as she would love to dwell on it and think it to death, she had work to do, and she made a conscious effort to better keep her attention where it belongs. At least until the meeting ends and they all stand up, which inevitably draws her predator's eyes to the first sign of motion. This woman absolutely towers over her attendants, the tallest of the two just barely reaching the araban's bust. As they all file out of the council room Morana entertains the mental image of that colossal woman scooping up the other two beneath her arms and carrying them out that way. She could laugh about it, wants to in a way, but chooses to remain silent and unchanged. As she has for most of her long, long life.
For a moment, the council room is nearly silent, save for the soft scratch of Lady Morana's pen. Leofrick stews for a stretching moment, his mind buzzing as he steadily leans back in the chair.
He takes a breath, "See that our guests are watched closely, councilor."
"Of course, majesty." Morana answers as is expected, having made note of the order before it was even given. In fact, as the king spoke, she was already contemplating which of her agents she would charge with the task -though she thinks one of her assassins would be overkill. Best to just get one of their day staff to make regular rounds, that should be enough.
"What did you make of them, Morana?" Carmilla asks. Her manner with Morana had always been something soft and casual, and that hasn't changed even with the king present and listening, even under the weight of his expectations of how she should conduct herself toward subordinates.
Morana still doesn't look up at first, her hand moving for but another second to finish a line. She then sets her lap desk atop the table before letting her folded hands rest in her lap. "The humans were simply that, humans. They are expecting to get what they want and don't seem the least bit suspicious. If they are, I imagine it's more so aimed at one another than us."
"That's convenient." Carmilla grins.
"I didn't much care for their interpreter." Leofrick sighs as he pushes his chair back and stands up. "Upstart has more in her mouth than too-long teeth."
"Lycans."
"Pardon?"
"Both of them were lycans, possibly here not just as a go-between but as protection for their araban . I'm to understand those creatures guard their leaders and elders particularly well."
The king regards Morana with something that could be confused as worry, but she dare not to take it as such. She has learned a great many things since coming to Styria, and protecting the king's ego was a swift lesson indeed.
"Do you suppose there are more of them?"
"Likely." Morana nods and her tone remains something that toes indifference. She's citing information that has been common knowledge to her for decades at least, and it never ceases to annoy her when others don't already know these things. "I've never had an opportunity to study lycan behaviors in depth, but they do tend to live and travel in large groups or clusters of packs, so let us assume there are more for the sake of taking all possible variables into account."
The king's eyes steadily shift away from her and he takes another breath. He's thinking about what to do with this information, doing everything he can to steer himself away from the ugly truth of what may be staring him in the face. Human armies were one thing, vampire armies are another, though not entirely unfamiliar. But lycans as well?
"I want your shadows to infiltrate them all, councilor. Simply to observe and keep us informed. Any intelligence they can gather for me will be happily received."
"Yes, majesty." not so much a nod as a lilt of her head. "Surprisingly, from what I could parse, Commander Welsh was being entirely forthright with her translation."
"Oh? I wasn't aware you could speak their language,"
"One of them, though I've yet to become fluent. I'm presently learning it, it's a Slavic dialect, but if they were planning some sort of subterfuge, they were doing it some other way."
"Suppose that's something of a comfort." and the little laugh he spares is facetious. "But it's hard to imagine, isn't it? Vampires working with those mongrels?"
"Fascinating, at best, majesty, though it could pose a unique and troublesome advantage."
"Indeed." that empty amusement saps right out of his face. "But I have every confidence that you'll be able to formulate a formidable response to such a threat, given time."
"And resources, majesty." and she doesn't feel the need to mention just how perilously thin those resources have grown as of late.
He makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment. "Of course. Now, is there any other business at hand for me this evening, councilor?"
Morana uses one delicate, painted talon to lift the top sheet on her lap desk and quickly sift through the next few pages. "Nothing that absolutely demands your attention, majesty. We are expecting the Lady Lenore to be arriving from Marseille some time this evening, but I would be happy to receive her in your stead."
"Lady who?" His head whipped towards his wife, a sharp, almost accusatory gesture. "Carmilla?"
"Oh, my lord, I thought I told you," she physically withdraws the slightest bit, something only another vampire could catch, which the king did. "She's to be my ambassador."
"We have ambassadors, Carmilla." it's the closest he feels that he has ever come to whining.
"Yes, my lord, but they are decidedly yours and they all but refuse to listen to me." She defends herself warily, knowing this could get out of hand very quickly if she wasn't careful. "I agreed to take on more responsibility, and you agreed to give me staff I could trust."
There's a flicker of tension in his face for a split second, a reflex that he was quick to control. Defiance did that to him, he knows, and it would be handled accordingly later. "Ah, so I did, yes. Then, councilor," he gives a brief glance and a nod to Morana, "I expect you to offer the Lady Lenore every comfort and to notify me when she arrives."
"Yes, majesty."
"Excellent. Now, Carmilla," now he's facing the queen again, his body still holding the tension that had been in his face so briefly. Leofrick extends his hand, his expression expectant.
Of course Carmilla accepts, and rises gracefully from her seat at the smallest tug from her husband. Not that she had another option.
Morana watches them leave the council room, her eyes set sympathetically on the queen.
--
"At least the beer's good." Commander Welsh lilts her head and takes another swig from the full stein that she's poured for herself. Her silent comrade sits patiently, waiting for a cup as well, and smiles brightly when she finally receives it. "How's your blood, Striga?"
The hulking vampire squats in front of the hearth, watching the growing fire she's built while swirling the mostly full chalice in her big hand. She responds readily to Latin, because she actually understands it, with a small, half distracted grunt as she ponders the flames a moment.
"Is it pig?" Because Welsh expects it to be, with times being like they are and human numbers being so thin, though she has yet to sniff-check the stuff herself.
"It's human." comes her simple answer. "And not poisoned." she laughs, mostly to herself.
"Suppose the old fool is being honest?"
Striga grins, again, to herself. "He has far too much to lose to lie, or to kill us."
"True enough." Welsh nods, takes another deep draw of her drink and swallows with an accompanying burst of an exhale, a satisfied sound. "Suppose he knew me and Ingrid are werefolk?"
"I would assume so. Would explain why he was so gracious with his...gifts." Striga stands up, empties her cup and strolls back to the table. "Still, the plague has surely weakened him as it has every other kingdom, he's going to do whatever he must to safeguard his power."
"Aye, and it's awful hard bein' the king of an empty country." Welsh and Ingrid both laugh, though the latter's sounds like just rhythmic pushes of air through her throat. "Speakin' of which, what did you make of him?"
"The king is a prick and his wife is terrified of him." She answers without hesitation, without a thought.
"Aye, smelled that plain enough." Both lycans nod because both of them were aware. "And the peacock?"
Striga cocks a curious grin. "The what?"
"The quiet woman in blue and gold, the one doin' all the scribbling?"
"Peacock," Striga chuckles, shaking her head. Welsh and her nicknames were bound to get her killed someday. "In that case, I didn't think much at all...pretty, I suppose." Which she isn't sure is the whole truth, but keeps it to herself.
Welsh nods in agreement, seeming to drop the subject there. Then she takes a moment to watch Striga and sip her beer, because she senses something...odd. Not necessarily out of place, just uncommon. She realizes Ingrid is watching her too, the younger lycan's still mostly blue eyes flitting between the two others.
"What are you thinking?" Welsh asks when she's finished waiting.
"Many things." Striga smirks, almost playful.
"What do you think you'll ask the king for when the time comes?"
"That's what is on my mind now, friend." the smirk widens just a touch. "A little hard to decide, because it isn't just for me."
"Oh?"
"Of course not, it's for all of us." Striga nods once. "Any one of these offerings could benefit us a great deal."
"They could, but you look like you've got more to say."
She silent a moment -which is more than enough confirmation in and of itself- refilling her cup and swirling the fresh blood in it before lifting those bright green eyes. "I have an idea."
Welsh chuckles and shakes her head. "There it is. So?"
"We'll bring this to the elders, of course, because we'll need everyone working together to pull it off...provided you and Ingrid don't talk me out of it."
"Well, we cannae do that 'til you give us a reason." Welsh crosses her arms, amused and interested. Ingrid mimics the gesture flawlessly, down to the cocked eyebrows. "So out with it."
Striga takes a long drink and a breath, taking a last few seconds to get her thoughts straight. "It's true, any one of these could give us a considerable advantage -land, money, weapons...the only thing better would be all of them." And she sees the expected puzzlement twist Welsh's face.
"Alright," Welsh starts nodding, her expression unchanging. "Alright. And how do you suppose we get all of them?"
"Simple. We take them."
Welsh's motions pause, her lip tucking between her teeth as she weighs the answer. Then she shakes her head and gives a puff of a laugh. "With all due respect, that sounds awfully lofty, even for you."
"I know." Striga seems unfazed. "But imagine what we could gain."
"We could be wiped out too." Welsh counters quickly, with a slight edge. A well meaning one.
"Just think about it for a moment," she looks down at Ingrid, meets her eyes that are bright and curious, finds some confidence in them. "We overtake the other generals, absorb their armies into ours, acquire their contracts. With a force that size, we'd have our pick of favors. The pack could finally have land to settle and the resources to really make something of it. We could start our own kingdom if we wanted." Striga spares a little laugh. "And we can seal an alliance with Styria through marriage to a courtier, which would please our other vampire allies." Because Styria was ancient and wealthy and a crown jewel of vampire society. "Surely all of that is worth the effort."
Now Welsh is scowling, her freckled and scarred face cinched tight with the realization that Striga is serious.
Ingrid taps Striga's hefty forearm to get her attention, and gestures with her hands; she points to herself and then to the third finger on her left hand, nodding and smiling enthusiastically.
"You see? Ingrid is ready to sacrifice for the cause already." Striga wants to laugh, but keeps it in when she sees the abject lack of amusement on her commander's face.
"'Cause Ingrid's still a youngin' yet and don't know how to look that far ahead." And she is wholly unfazed by the resolute middle finger the younger lycan gives Welsh for her trouble.
Striga thinks to change tactics. "You could finally build Sameena a house. A real one, not just a tent that gets pulled down every day, week, or month whenever we move on."
Welsh glares at her. "You dinnae have to make this personal."
One sable brow peaks, daring. "Can you tell I'm trying to sway your decision?"
"Aye, and you can shove the snark, thank ye much."
"Come now, old friend, don't be angry with me. You would have thought of it eventually anyway."
"That's nae my point"
"I know, I know," Striga puts up her hands, conceding. "But, in any case, what do you think?"
Welsh scowls a little harder, her lips pulling back in a very wolfish way. "I think you make a good argument..and I hate that a wee bit, I won't lie -I know what it's like to buck against something too big. Yet I think the only thing I hate worse is how much I believe we could pull it off." Although that could easily be outclassed by the sheer disgust she feels bubbling up at Striga's self-satisfied grin that's splitting her face like a wound. She drops her gaze to her stein and swirls what little is left in the bottom of it. "We've got sly ones we can send in to infiltrate them, try and play the few lycans and nightwalkers they have against them, convince 'em to join us...but if our numbers grow, we'll need more humans on our side too."
"I know, I've considered that. I'll not take them by force, but I'm hoping we can find a way to woo them."
"I think a promise of a place to call home would help. If we get enough land out of this deal, we'll have room for everyone, and we'll need them all to make it anything worth keepin'."
"That's what I'm betting on; their soldiers may be content to wander their whole lives, but their families might have different feelings given the opportunity."
Welsh nods slowly. "...I'll look into it, provided the elders can be convinced. That won't be easy."
"Nothing worth doing ever is."
"You're flirting with outright war, Striga."
"I know, but I'm flirting with enormous gain as well."
"Aye, so you understand why I'm worried? 'Cause I've seen the way you flirt,"
Ingrid snickers behind her hand as Striga's expression sours a little. The vampire clears her throat with a rumble. "Rest assured, I am much better at courting disaster."
"Mayhaps you should ask the king for a wife, then?" Welsh smiles from ear to ear, her tone goading and playful. "Perhaps leverage some of her dowry our way?"
Striga allows herself a touch of humor, to let it show in a half-cocked smirk. "There are few things I wouldn't do to get what I want in this life, but using someone like that is assuredly one of them. Mind you, I'm not above bartering for a bride, but even in doing so, it would be with the intention of loving and honoring her as best I can."
Welsh smiles warmly, nodding in approval. "You know, sometimes you make this old dog proud."
"And when I want to become the greatest warlord Styria has ever seen? What do you feel then?"
"Only mild concern, but that'll pass after a few more drinks."
The three share a laugh that lingers until their cups are full again, and the conversation starts leaning away from present business to future business, to dreams of what their success might bring. When the beer and the blood is gone and dawn approaches, the three of them pile onto the large, luxurious bed. Welsh posts herself up on first watch because they can't be too careful, leaving Ingrid to nestle up to Striga's side because they're both used to it and lycans are a physical bunch.
Striga doesn't fall asleep quickly, finding her lingering consciousness circling around that particularly interesting woman that had been at the king's left hand. The peacock -she almost laughs again at the name. She had only snagged the regard of those stunning blue eyes for a split second, but it had been more than enough to stir her unbeating heart, to cause a flutter she can't remember having felt in many years.
What that I could barter for a bride...I'd never have enough, not for a fine women like that.
Still, it was a pleasant dream for when sleep finally comes.
(II)
Twenty years later...
Carmilla never knocks, not once in the decades since Morana came to serve Styria, so it is not the slightest bit of a surprise when Morana hears the turning of the handle and meek whine of the hinges of her door opening out of nowhere. She doesn't even move or look up from whatever she is working on, simply takes a breath and casually says on the exhale "Good evening, Carmilla. Sit where it pleases you."
She doesn't pay it much mind after that, at least not for perhaps another minute, long enough to finish the last of these calculations and be satisfied. And she expects Carmilla will start speaking eventually, it's what she does. But, as the time drags on between Carmilla's entry and whatever she likely means to say, Morana can feel herself growing uneasy; whatever has happened must be serious.
"Darling," Carmilla calls her that often, especially when it's just the two of them, so no sense of alarm in that. Although, the word drags on in a way. "...It's done."
Morana freezes, her delicate brows shifting towards one another gently. She weighs it for a second, the sound, the obvious weight without the knowledge to prop it up. Morana sets down her pen and turns in her seat. "What do you-,"
It takes a fraction of a second to realize what exactly she's looking at, but when it hits, Morana tenses. She slowly rises from her seat, something like worry -maybe more curiosity- shifting her expression as she straightens and takes in the sight of Carmilla.
She is a vision in white as she steadily approaches, as regal as anything at first glance, but Morana's eyes reflexively catch the crimson spattered across her form with a quickness that can only be described as supernatural. Her once immaculate nightgown is tainted, as are her hands, her talons, and there are garish flecks of dark red across her face and neck, even in her hair. Morana knows Carmilla well, at least well enough to know that being in such a state should have her absolutely furious, but she finds the queen...calm in an unsettling way. In fact, she's more than calm, she appears something like pleased.
"It's done." Carmilla says again, though her voice shakes slightly this time. She's smiling in a strange way, Morana finds it strange at least.
Morana takes a step, the first of a collection of slow, almost cautious motions. "What have you done?"
"I have," her words pause though her steps do not, "set us free."
It's hard for Morana to choose between dread and clarity, so she settles for a mixture of the two. In any case, Morana crosses the space between them a little quicker, perhaps something soft in her sensing that Carmilla might fold over. The queen is looking both here and not here, and Morana can't imagine that to be a steady state of mind. When she's close enough, Carmilla takes her hands in both of her own chilled and sticky ones before Morana can get a word in. The gesture garners the entirety of Morana's attention, and she takes a moment just to study Carmilla now that she's up close.
"We're free." Carmilla exhales unsteadily. "I. Am. Free." And with each word, each shuddering syllable, her mouth cuts a trembling smile and her blue eyes glisten. "At last."
Morana is still watching Carmilla very closely, even a stray twitch at the corner of her eye doesn't go unseen, her mind buzzing with ideas of what to do or say if anything. She doesn't dare look away, even as Carmilla releases her hands and lifts those long, once flawlessly snowy fingers to frame her face, to hold her still as she presses their foreheads together.
Carmilla closes her eyes, still smiling though crystalline tears roll down her cheeks. Then, at first Morana thinks she may be in the initial throws of sobbing, but Carmilla seems to rhythmically shake, shoulders bouncing with what Morana quickly realizes is laughter. But the sound betrays Carmilla's face, which then betrays itself and morphs with an ugly twist. Her whole body shudders with a tortured punch of air, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around Morana's face, talons itching behind her pointed ears.
"I...I should be happy." Carmilla says unsteadily, a mixture of certain and confused. "It shouldn't...hurt like this, should it? He'll never...ever," now there are fangs and vicious edges in her voice, there and gone again, "hurt me again. But...but why does it hurt now?"
The question is pitiful, pitiable, and Morana feels something behind her ribs stirring at that wrenching vulnerability. She knows the answer, because Carmilla has told her everything but her dress size in the years they've known each other, but remains silent. She is not the one to comfort or to console, she has always ever been the one to listen, to dictate, to counsel, and she feels woefully out of place. So she only listens for now, lets Carmilla cry, and waits.
Carmilla takes one sudden, sucking breath, her eyes opening and her features softening over into something empty. She lifts her head, but lets her hands linger around Morana's face but a moment more -to revel in something soft a little longer. When she pulls away it's slow, the tacky pads of her fingers dragging, leaving dark copper streaks, guilt by association. Accessory. Because Morana knew everything, knew for years just how badly she had wanted to murder that bastard. And now she regards Morana with a clarity that she feels inching towards euphoria, bit by bit, like droplets of water down a shard of ice.
"There's so much work to do now, isn't there?"
Morana blinks back at her, briefly stunned. "Well...yes. Yes there is. What do you need?" And she watches as the undercurrent of euphoria springs up, pulling Carmilla's painted lips wide like a wound.
"I can always count on you, darling." Then she kisses Morana's forehead, then her lips in a tender way that Morana had always been curious about, and then it's over just like that. Back to knife-edge smiles. "Where do we start?"
Morana mentally reaches for her councilor's persona, that cool calculation, but is just shy of grasping it. Still she tries, starting at the bottom and working up. "You're certain he's dead?"
"He is...in pieces." Carmilla's eyes flare with delight. "By sunrise, he will be dust. Should we even bother trying to hide it?" her tone is daring. "Who cares how the bastard died? The throne is mine. I. Am. Styria now."
"The entirety of the court is going to care." Morana reminds her firmly. "Yes, you are now sovereign, but the court will still have a response to this, and there is no way we can predict what they will do."
"They're a bunch of old men," Carmilla sneers, "just like he was. I'm sure they'll have lots of squabbling and chest-thumping to do about it. But it doesn't matter, does it? Not anymore."
"It does matter. If the court dissolves, we stand to take a great many losses. They are still our allies and we still need them."
"No...no, I don't believe we do." That wild euphoria seems to have diminished...more so, been tempered, and that smile has condensed into something more focused, intentional. Carmilla steps back, takes a few beats to contemplate her soiled hands. "It's time for new things, Morana. A new ruler, a new court with new ideas. All of it must change now."
"Not that I disagree, but...there are ways to do that."
"Yes. New ways." Her eyes flit to Morana and then back down to her own hands, fixing on the gentle rubbing of the pads of her fingers against one another. "It's us against the world now, darling. You, Lenore, and I...and to hell with the court. I'll bleed them all like pigs if I must."
"Carmilla,"
"I mean it, Morana. We are Styria now, Sisters, and we will see to her prosperity from now on. With or without those spoiled. Old. Men."
Sisters...
Morana's reflexive thoughts are demanding she speak sense, to dictate the proper course of action, but she realizes that now isn't the time for sense. She knows Carmilla will hear none of it because she's carrying on like she did so many times before, when she was merely thinking of regicide. Now that she has actually done it, well...
This wasn't Morana's first coup, but it was certainly the least organized. Still, Carmilla needed support, she realizes, now more than ever, as she would surely be hard pressed to find it in the coming nights. So Morana means to see that she gets it.
(--)
They had inside help, but the battle had still been hard fought. Perhaps their hidden allies had been discovered, perhaps word slipped too soon, there's no way to know for sure at present. Whatever the reason, the opposing army had been at some level of readiness when Striga's forces came charging across the meadows in the dead of night. That proved to be the greatest obstacle, though a remarkably brief one, as by now, Striga's troops outnumbered them considerably.
The cavalry is quick to encircle the camp, to keep civilians and soldiers alike from fleeing or even making it to their horses. Anyone who raised a weapon is dispatched, some disconnected skirmishes breaking out and quickly squelched. It isn't their aim to completely wipe them out, and Striga's troops do their best to make that evident as swiftly as possible. There might a have been a handful that escaped, but it was expected for them to eventually come back for their families, had they any.
The resident araban is still missing, however, when the worst of the commotion dies down. Striga or Welsh would have sent a search party, but word had it the araban's own were already hot on his trail. That wasn't a surprise, however, after all, they had inside help. So, now inside the wayward araban's tent, absently rummaging through his possessions, Striga waits for him to be found and brought back.
Within the hour the flaps of the large, spacious tent are pulled back and in strides a whole posse of people, one of which is the araban being guided resolutely forward by a clawed hand cuffing the back of his neck. Those claws belong to a tall, lithe woman that grins to show off her fangs, her facial features mostly Mongol with a mixture of something else. She looks over the man's shoulder, self-satisfied as she meets Striga's eyes with one of rich brown, pitch pupil ringed with gold and crimson -a young lycan's eye- and a false one of solid gold that rumors say could still see just as well as a real one, nestled in a twisted pit of scar tissue.
Striga turns to face them all, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well met, Inanna."
"Well met," she then puts the man on his knees with a firm shove and a grunt. "As agreed, here he is."
Striga nods. "Do you know the location of his contract?"
"That I do." Inanna has the roll of parchment tucked in her shirt, between her half bare, tattooed breasts. "Which I intend to keep."
"As agreed." another nod.
Now Innana's grin opens fully, all teeth and wild eyes as she draws a long, nimble knife from her belt and draws it across the kneeling human's throat. Not an ounce of hesitation, not a touch of fanfare. It was a blink of a moment and was given just as much attention. The only feeling Striga has over it is the slight lamentation that fresh blood was going to waste right in front of her.
"So, suppose you're araban now?"
"I am indeed." Inanna laughs, flaring the long crimson braid of her hair behind her with a flip of one hand. "Though I prefer madam, if you please."
"Aye, madam." No sarcasm, just acceptance and respect.
"And as such, I feel the need to make it absolutely clear that I do not answer to you." That smile has collapsed into an unreadable line, though her mismatched eyes say everything Striga needs to know about her intent. "My troops are not at your command, but mine. Am I understood?"
"Absolutely. I only ask that you act as an ally, as we discussed."
"And I will do so until it is no longer convenient for me, particularly until this contract is fulfilled and I have my due."
"So I gathered. Although," Striga cocks a little grin, "wasn't such shrewd politics what led you to betray your araban in the first place?"
"It was his lack of vision." Inanna rolls her eye and then looks down at the corpse at her feet, kicking it once. "That, and rumor was cropping up that he was going to try his hand as the khans did all those years ago."
Striga feels her ribs stiffen at the idea. She couldn't quite recall if Inanna had been present herself for those times, but surely, as a lycan, she had heard the story from her kind. "No need to risk rumors like that being true." Striga exhales with a certain stiffness.
"Certainly not. So," the lycan's crimson brows peak briefly and her smile has returned. "What say we put the humans back to bed and then talk about what's next?"
Striga opens her mouth to answer, but pauses as her eyes move reflexively to motion beyond Inanna, beyond her entourage as the flaps of the tent shudder and then tear back. She feels herself reflexively tense as Welsh ducks into the torchlight within, small braziers casting the sweaty, bloody lycan in shades of gold. She and Inanna regard each other for all of a second, long enough for Striga to sense some sort of tension between them as she addresses the corpse, but no time to contemplate it.
"A moment, if you could?" Welsh asks, her tone unnecessarily soft.
Striga nods once and loosens up, starting to walk forward. "If you'll excuse me," she glances to Innana, receiving a nod. "Make yourself comfortable, take a moment to enjoy your new station."
"Like I need your permission." though it's clear her sass is in jest.
Outside the tent it is surprisingly calm, quiet, a brief look around giving Striga the idea that very little, if anything, is out of place.
"You look worried." Striga says without prompting, because it's painfully obvious. Welsh doesn't scowl like that for no reason. "Inanna won't be with us long, I believe, so try to keep your fangs tucked in for a while."
"I got the numbers back. About fifty casualties in total."
"Ah, I see." Striga nods, understanding. "Well?"
"Mostly injuries, but we lost twenty in the initial charge."
"Any of your pack?" she knows the answer before Welsh speaks a word, watching how her face screws up. "How many?"
"Four...a mated pair, had a pup that needs lookin' after now...Ingrid's gone."
Striga grimaces as she feels her ribs cave, shrinking sharply around her lungs to push out what little air they hold. That same reflexive clench radiates through her whole body, tempting her to fold, but Striga holds fast and forces air back into her chest. She can't show weakness, not now, not here. "Suppose fate thought it time we start paying for our ambition? Now that we're so close to realizing it?"
"Oh fuck you ." Welsh snarls, her voice tight and rasping. "Don't you dare try and put blame on this or I'll thrash your ass square right here."
"Welsh,"
"Iffin' you think any of us are fit for dyin' just because we wanted a home ," and Welsh glares, the whites of her eyes bloodshot, magnifying the ferocity of the yellow and red of her irises. "I'll desert, so help me."
She knows she's not good at it, but Striga puts her best effort into a look of sympathy, of understanding. It would be much easier if it was the proper time for this, which there would be, just not at present. "I'm sorry for your loss, friend. I know she was important to you."
"She was like a daughter to me...you know how long it's been since...and you -," for a second it looks like Welsh might break, and she feels it, but she sucks it down just like Striga had, albeit with far less subtlety. She snarls and flashes her teeth and wipes her forearm across her face in one rough swipe. " Fuck." Then she spits, as if trying to expel any unwanted feelings. "But that's not everything. Just got word from our sly ones near the palace."
"Oh?"
"King's dead. Murdered by his wife they think, just a couple nights ago."
Sable brows rise sharply with interest.
"Really?"
Both Striga and Welsh snap around to see Inanna's head poking out between the tent flaps, all alight with intrigue, just before she steps out completely.
"So it would seem." Striga tries not to let her disapproval show, because that was terribly rude and she hated unwanted ears on her conversations.
"A grieving widow sounds like ideal prey." Inanna situates herself between them, fists on her hips as she exchanges looks with both of them. "So what's the plan? Siege the place and take it all?"
Welsh's expression is still grave, though the energy of the look has changed. All the grief has been exchanged with a fierce wariness, a need to bare teeth. "Iffin' what we heard is true, and the queen did off her own husband, I doubt she'll be doin' much grievin'."
"Semantics," Inanna dismisses.
"In any case," Striga says after a moment, "we will be moving quickly, while we have the leverage."
"You're not sticking with the plan, are you?" Inanna crosses her arms and cocks her hips, her tone is goading. "We have everything we need to sweep up everything . We can take the whole kingdom if we wanted!"
"And if that is still your wish once our work is done, you are more than free to try. I believe my commanders and I have had our fill of Lady Fortune's good graces, we'll not tempt her further."
"Hah," Inanna scoffs. "Never would have taken the Raven for a coward, but I suppose tonight is just full of surprises."
"Mind your tongue, whelp." Welsh growls.
"I'm not afraid of you." Even the gaze of her false eye carries weight that the older lycan can feel. "I'll settle this now if you like."
"Enough." Striga's voice rumbles and relays her intention clearly. "There has been enough bloodshed tonight, and I'll not see to more, especially when there are better things for all of us to do. We make way for the palace tomorrow night; the wounded and dead must be seen to, and those that wish to depart from us shall have until nightfall to do so."
"We need the humans, you nightwalkers most of all." Inanna challenges, seeming a mixture of amused and confused.
"Yes, but they should have the choice just as we do."
Inanna laughs again, dismissive. "Why the fuck did you even bother with all this?"
A touch of irritation draws Striga's brows together as she turns to face Inanna. "Perhaps I am beyond tired of destroying things. Perhaps, for once, I wish to build something, and I refuse to build anything atop the backs of people who feel they are prisoners. I will not demand even humans to suffer a condition I myself would not tolerate."
"And if they all leave?"
"Then I shall build with whoever remains, and make my way all the same."
Surprisingly, after a moment of measuring Striga up and down, Inanna concedes. "Fair enough." and puts up her hands. "Do as you like, and just this once I'll do as you ask."
Striga cracks a minimal, half hearted smirk. "Many thanks, madam." and she has to fight to stop it from becoming a full smile as Inanna turns and leaves, disappearing back into what was now her tent.
"She really expects us to call her that?" Welsh grumbles low.
"It's a matter of respect, old friend, so we best do it. But don't worry yourself with her now, as I said, we've more important matters to deal with."
"Aye, and dirty work it is."
Author's Note: So here we are with some old friends and a new story. As it stands, I'm going with different character parameters this go round, such as Morana's age being 2000+ and Striga's being roughly 200 per the CV crew. Some character backstories are different as well, which will unfold as the story does. Safe to say this story is going to be a considerable departure in tone and composition than Shatranj, so do try to keep that in mind as we go. Thanks for stopping by, be you returning audience or a new visitor, and take care!