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It’s a few hours before dawn as you pad down the hall in stocking feet, careful not to make a sound. You shake the girl’s1 shoulder—gently, but insistently, and when she opens her eyes wide to see you crouched by her bed, you hold a finger to your lips.
“Iris,” you say, “I need you to gather the rest of the children here, and get out. The next town is ten miles away, to the east; take what you must from the kitchen, but do it quickly. Please.”
She looks at you, a searching expression on her face, and then nods, her mouth drawn into a thin line, and then sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the cot to get up and rouse the other children from their sleep.
You don’t linger, though. You have work to do.
It starts by making a makeshift torch from oil and a piece of cloth2, going to find your pack to sling over your shoulder and the combat knives3 buried under the rest of your things—firearms are unfortunately useless for this kind of business4—and heading to the opposite wing of the building to start setting the place ablaze, locking doors behind you as you go.
It’s of course too much to expect that no one will notice you, especially when the yelling and screaming starts, but you know how the Holy Lance5 fights—you’ve seen all the tricks, from that man6, and they’re nowhere near that level.
The first one you run into was the one who welcomed you in here, at the door, and you’re inside his range before he can strike with his whip, slicing a deep gash through his torso. It barely seems to hobble him, but you’ve got the advantage, and you elbow him in the face, kick him backwards against the wall, and slice his head clean off.7
He dissolves into ash8, leaving only clothes behind9, and he will not be the last, tonight.
When you have the chance to look out a window, you see the girl leading the children away10, and a weight lifts from your heart—that was, if anything, the point of all this violence. So no matter what happens, there’s that.
You’re just heading to bar the front doors when someone grabs your arm, and yanks with unnatural strength—you whirl, whipping your torch into their face, and… ah. The Headmaster11 wasn’t in his office after all, or, perhaps based on the black scorch marks up his arms, he smashed his way out.
He’s an elder, and unlike the rest, he’s got more bite to him; he’s got the strength and hatred to match yours, and spits at you as he slashes at you, spear in one hand, sorcerous whip in the other. The building is well ablaze, now, but he has the conviction not to falter even in light of one of your kind’s greatest banes, and you’re not coming into this fresh.12
The whip catches around your wrist, and he comes snarling at you, fangs bared, as he yanks you in—
…but then he staggers, and you realize that in the mayhem, neither of you had noticed Iris sneaking back on her own, butcher’s knife in hand to bury in his back.13
It’s all the opening you need, and you reverse the grip of your blade to jam it through his neck, drawing upon your unnatural strength to give it as much force as you possibly can, and lean in right next to his ear to mutter, through gritted teeth:
“With all due respect, which is none, go into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth!”14
And then it’s through, head cleaved from body, and there’s one less disgusting monster in the world. You tuck your knife into your belt, and nod to the girl.
“You’ve surely got many questions, but—let’s leave this place behind.”
[1] Iris Virga was dark-haired, with a straight nose and light tan skin, not unusual in Mesoamerica; at this point in her life she was gangly and already taller than her soon-to-be guardian and mentor. But she still looked so small.
[2] By this point, Grace Yi had studied the occult means by which a vampire learns not to fear the flame; a useful trick in her line of work.
[3] Yi had learned this particular fighting style from her former Regnant (see "An Ethnography of Vampires"), who had used her to kill opponents both mortal and immortal. She derived a certain amount of private satisfaction toward turning it upon those she once served, and furthermore, in using it to attack the foundations of vampire society.
[4] Vampires, due to their deadened flesh, are far less catastrophically damaged by ballistics than humans.
[5] A name for the "Lancaea Sanctum," a quasi-Christian vampiric religious movement which posits that Longinus was made a vampire by God and charged with being the wolf that teaches the flock not to stray. Heretical bastards who completely missed the point.
[6] That motherfucker. What a tool.
[7] Yi was never one given to violence for violence's sake; the satisfaction of a necessary job being done was, in her best times, enough for her. She preferred by and large to execute her opponents cleanly and quickly.
[8] The ultimate fate of any vampire; those of sufficiently unnatural age will turn to ash nigh-immediately.
[9] When the concept of "The Rapture" became fashionable, the irony of some voices touting that only clothes would be left behind was not lost on her.
[10] In later times, Yi (or, furthermore, Hope of unit BAD END=DEAD END) would wonder if Iris might have been happier if that had truly been the last they had seen of each other; if she would have been able to go on to a happy life of her own.
[11] The Headmaster was a tall, reedy white man who must have already been on the older side when he became a vampire, but not before his strength failed him. Unfortunately.
[12] It is entirely possible that Yi might have met her Final Death here, were it not for what happened next. Had Iris Virga not returned, it's likely that the story might have ended here.
[13] She was always determined; even then.
[14] This phrase is used six times in the bible; in this case it could refer to hypocrites (Matthew 24:51) or worthless servants (implied, of God; Matthew 25:30).
“Iris,” you say, “I need you to gather the rest of the children here, and get out. The next town is ten miles away, to the east; take what you must from the kitchen, but do it quickly. Please.”
She looks at you, a searching expression on her face, and then nods, her mouth drawn into a thin line, and then sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the cot to get up and rouse the other children from their sleep.
You don’t linger, though. You have work to do.
It starts by making a makeshift torch from oil and a piece of cloth2, going to find your pack to sling over your shoulder and the combat knives3 buried under the rest of your things—firearms are unfortunately useless for this kind of business4—and heading to the opposite wing of the building to start setting the place ablaze, locking doors behind you as you go.
It’s of course too much to expect that no one will notice you, especially when the yelling and screaming starts, but you know how the Holy Lance5 fights—you’ve seen all the tricks, from that man6, and they’re nowhere near that level.
The first one you run into was the one who welcomed you in here, at the door, and you’re inside his range before he can strike with his whip, slicing a deep gash through his torso. It barely seems to hobble him, but you’ve got the advantage, and you elbow him in the face, kick him backwards against the wall, and slice his head clean off.7
He dissolves into ash8, leaving only clothes behind9, and he will not be the last, tonight.
When you have the chance to look out a window, you see the girl leading the children away10, and a weight lifts from your heart—that was, if anything, the point of all this violence. So no matter what happens, there’s that.
You’re just heading to bar the front doors when someone grabs your arm, and yanks with unnatural strength—you whirl, whipping your torch into their face, and… ah. The Headmaster11 wasn’t in his office after all, or, perhaps based on the black scorch marks up his arms, he smashed his way out.
He’s an elder, and unlike the rest, he’s got more bite to him; he’s got the strength and hatred to match yours, and spits at you as he slashes at you, spear in one hand, sorcerous whip in the other. The building is well ablaze, now, but he has the conviction not to falter even in light of one of your kind’s greatest banes, and you’re not coming into this fresh.12
The whip catches around your wrist, and he comes snarling at you, fangs bared, as he yanks you in—
…but then he staggers, and you realize that in the mayhem, neither of you had noticed Iris sneaking back on her own, butcher’s knife in hand to bury in his back.13
It’s all the opening you need, and you reverse the grip of your blade to jam it through his neck, drawing upon your unnatural strength to give it as much force as you possibly can, and lean in right next to his ear to mutter, through gritted teeth:
“With all due respect, which is none, go into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth!”14
And then it’s through, head cleaved from body, and there’s one less disgusting monster in the world. You tuck your knife into your belt, and nod to the girl.
“You’ve surely got many questions, but—let’s leave this place behind.”
[1] Iris Virga was dark-haired, with a straight nose and light tan skin, not unusual in Mesoamerica; at this point in her life she was gangly and already taller than her soon-to-be guardian and mentor. But she still looked so small.
[2] By this point, Grace Yi had studied the occult means by which a vampire learns not to fear the flame; a useful trick in her line of work.
[3] Yi had learned this particular fighting style from her former Regnant (see "An Ethnography of Vampires"), who had used her to kill opponents both mortal and immortal. She derived a certain amount of private satisfaction toward turning it upon those she once served, and furthermore, in using it to attack the foundations of vampire society.
[4] Vampires, due to their deadened flesh, are far less catastrophically damaged by ballistics than humans.
[5] A name for the "Lancaea Sanctum," a quasi-Christian vampiric religious movement which posits that Longinus was made a vampire by God and charged with being the wolf that teaches the flock not to stray. Heretical bastards who completely missed the point.
[6] That motherfucker. What a tool.
[7] Yi was never one given to violence for violence's sake; the satisfaction of a necessary job being done was, in her best times, enough for her. She preferred by and large to execute her opponents cleanly and quickly.
[8] The ultimate fate of any vampire; those of sufficiently unnatural age will turn to ash nigh-immediately.
[9] When the concept of "The Rapture" became fashionable, the irony of some voices touting that only clothes would be left behind was not lost on her.
[10] In later times, Yi (or, furthermore, Hope of unit BAD END=DEAD END) would wonder if Iris might have been happier if that had truly been the last they had seen of each other; if she would have been able to go on to a happy life of her own.
[11] The Headmaster was a tall, reedy white man who must have already been on the older side when he became a vampire, but not before his strength failed him. Unfortunately.
[12] It is entirely possible that Yi might have met her Final Death here, were it not for what happened next. Had Iris Virga not returned, it's likely that the story might have ended here.
[13] She was always determined; even then.
[14] This phrase is used six times in the bible; in this case it could refer to hypocrites (Matthew 24:51) or worthless servants (implied, of God; Matthew 25:30).