A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I slap Octave’s blade aside before it can bury itself in my breast, counter-attacking immediately. Our swords clink against each other, whistling through the air. We step back and forth and to the side in a lethal dance. I am fully absorbed in the fight with the help of the Cadiz essence and manage to reach a state of perfect calm and focus where my arms move faster than I can think. Instinct, experience, intuition, all guide me through a fight I cannot truly win. Right now, it does not matter. Octave leaves me an opening and I take it. A flick of my wrist, and Rose extends enough to slam against his massive chest protector.

I frown. That makes no sense?

I charge him before the second syllable is out and get a smile as an answer. The dance resumes. Octave is purposefully lowering his skills in a way that only a true master could. He gives me openings and makes mistakes that only someone a little less competent than him would do. I have to work very hard to corner him, overwhelm him with a series of movements that leave him with no choice but to take a hit. Feints and changing attacks are key. Using more strength in specific strikes thanks to the Natalis essence helps as well. After two hours, we are done and the time comes for the last leg of the exercise.

The full experience.

With the exception of my armor, which I am to discard in favor of the traditional lamellar gambeson, I am using all of my gear and facing off against Octave for his own amusement. He delights in facing off against my guns specifically, and I have worked hard to integrate them in a style designed to take him down as a result. I had to reinforce the trigger mechanism to fire faster, train to shoot twice almost instantly while drawing, and empty the whole barrel in an instant. He faces me only with his shirt and heart protector while insisting that I use my own bullets. I have run out of bullets. I had to make more bullets. The workshop master only calls me the ‘boom girl’ now, when the apprentices are not here.

I dodge a strike by leaping back.

The spell surges and even alters course to strike at Octave, but he moves with impossible grace, in strange sequences that would make me blink if it was the first time. His footwork is out of this world.

I draw and fire but he merely continues moving in those strange patterns without stopping, having once more anticipated my strategy. Our dance continues. Sometimes, I manage to nick him by shooting randomly in small clusters but it does not happen every session. I think he will grow bored of it after a while.

With this, our session ends and we bow to each other. I clean up quickly while Octave welcomes another student, this one a full Knight. I hurry to the library feeling very much like a young student hurrying to class. The stone-faced librarian welcomes me. He is an old Dvor Master who had chosen the library as his domain, an extremely strange decision that I did not dare investigate too closely.

His name is Drakla and he is almost bald, with a white face and deep-set eyes that never blink. With a gesture, he invites me to a secluded alcove that contains a series of books piled carefully. I sit down and notice thin markers at specific spots.

He speaks slowly and meticulously as if words were precious.

Drakla grabs a dusty old tome and opens it, showing me a strangely organic glyph, at the very limit of what a traditional gauntlet could achieve. The work on it is heterodox while remaining anchored in the ‘western standard’ magic system.

Between this, my unpredictability and Nami’s hypnotic movement techniques, I will be able to throw off even the most battle-hardened veterans!

I stare at the librarian, who was once banished from Athens for killing too many young adults, and thank him.

The session continues and I start collecting spells. My training in the magical arts will continue in an arena, but I will be sure to return to the library on occasion.

The next class is one on law, taught by Marlan himself. I find that a lot of common rules used throughout covens have been co-opted by Constantine when he created the Accords. After all, why discard something that had worked for centuries? This is where the issues start, however. Mask laws put the emphasis on secrecy and the respect of nation-wide directives, while Eneru unsurprisingly place the city-masters at the heart of their system. The influence a city-master wields in their domain is simply unequalled, and only legal travelers are protected from their reach. It makes the legislation between Eneru and Mask faction members in time of peace impossibly complex.

The lesson finishes a bit later and I rejoin my group for a small get-together. The discussion is mostly between Phineas and I, with Lars occasionally commenting. As for Esmeray, she spends this free time in full wolf form. It also explains how she can be such a good shade. Her wolf form is not the same as a werewolf’s one. Her shape is that of a normal animal, only darker, and she has a remarkable ability to hide her aura and presence in that shape. This time allows us to compare notes and to get acquainted. I spend a lot of time talking about some of my past experiences, and getting recognition for those. Phineas also has some interesting stories about people who disrespected him and how, as the accountant and paymaster of his coven, he made their lives miserable without failing his duties.

Then comes the last branch of the evening. I have agreed to a special lesson involving Anatole’s team, the more experienced Knights. It is a test. A test to see exactly where he stands, but also how much I can achieve with no equipment.

I enter the arena set for the challenge, an empty place of sand devoid of obstacles. it will make the opposing team’s task easier. At first.

The squad trainer awaits with my opponents. My nemesis is by his side.

Only a vampire could spot the minute sneer on the face of the other team’s shield-bearer. The other members are mostly guarded, their stoic bodies at attention. There are five of them, a Roland shield-bearer with little interest for subtlety, a Cadiz fencer straight out of a pirate story, an Amaretta mage with her face veiled, a young-looking Dvor covered in knives and another Cadiz with a maul.

I rush forward, without waiting for anything. This is a rogue fight. A rogue has no rules.

The first to react is the Amaretta. She steps back and whispers something and I almost stumble. Only years of experience keep me going.

My intuition is gone.

I feel like I had one limb removed from me and must now fight amputated. The feeling of loss claws at me, demanding satisfaction, but not now. A rogue is cunning, not smart, but cunning. I rush to the side of the shield-bearer, aiming at the maul-wielder. He is only now starting to move. I pretend to expose my flank. The shield-bearer strikes with a sword.

I roll under his blow.

The steel sword still rakes against my back. I could not adjust that well without intuition fine-tuning me, but it will suffice. I grab on his leg and bite behind his knee.

I taste the barest hint of essence but I do not draw it.

A sword skewers me, missing my heart by a finger. HURTS.

I stand up and grab the sword from the shield-bearer’s semi-resisting fingers. A rogue often dislikes weapons, but a rogue is cunning.

I back away and dodge a maul strike, then twist to avoid three knives. A fourth finds my shoulder. I brandish the sword like a javelin and find the Amaretta vampire, still hanging back. She crouches and I realize that I will not get her. She will see. GET TO THE TENDER ONE.

I roar and use all of my raw strength. The sword flies through the air at the knife wielder who fails to deflect it. His gasp of pain distracts the swordsman as I grab the knife from my shoulder and throw it at him. A rogue is cunning. I do not need intuition. Power is a crutch. Take my weapons and I can still fight. I CAN ALWAYS HUNT.

The swordsman dodges at the last moment, though he pays for his inattention with a gash to the cheek. I jump over the descending maul and bite its wielder.

I sprint. The knife wielder is still removing the sword from his chest. It is planted in his sternum, a very painful wound. He has to drag the blade out handspan by handspan.

I change my target at the last moment and jump on the pirate swordsman rushing to help his companion. PAIN. His sword through my hand. I close the distance and slap him.

A claw wound would take too long to regenerate. This is not the purpose of the exercise. He goes down anyway.

The knife-thrower offers little resistance.

To her credit, the Amaretta spellcaster extends a folding quarterstaff and faces me head on. I end the fight by slamming her against the wall, but keeping her face intact as a favor.

I stand up and return to my side of the arena. The Knights regain theirs with obvious displeasure, except for the Amaretta woman who just brushes sand off her uniform.

How bold of the trainer. Most of the time, criticism comes through understatements or in private. Public chastisement is a good way to antagonize us. Case in point, Mannfred hisses, showing a bit of fang.

The instructor’s tone is cold and humorless, his point clear. Mannfred does not react, though the anger in him radiates outward. This victory brings me no joy either. They were not taking this, and me, seriously. It was a disappointing Hunt.

I lick my lips to chase away Mannfred’s essence. To bite without drawing frustrates me to no end. If it were with friends, I would not mind as much, but those people are… not truly mine. The Knights are structured like mortal orders, with some concessions made to our nature. They have not formed a coven. Its members are not mortals. We are creatures of instinct.

I am Thirsty. CULL THE WEAK. No. This is not my decision to make.

I listen impassively as the instructor lectures his pupils.

Malakim.

I nod in understanding and wait for them to raise their weapons. I charge forward… and back out immediately.

Now, they are a Knight squad. The three front-liners work in harmony, their support keeping me pinned and disabled. The swordsman and shield-bearer keep their pressure on with light strikes while the mauler occasionally throws a devastating, powerful blow, when he knows that his allies cover him. I am still faster than any single fighter but it is not enough, not when I am practically fighting a creature with five bodies and ten hands. They manage to back me up against the wall but I use it to run and jump higher, our fight turning into a pursuit. I slap the swordsman on his greaves as he overextends and pull out almost immediately to avoid a particularly vicious hammer strike.

I am… tiring.

The night nears its end. I have studied and fought to the most of my abilities. I must now contend with the Amaretta sealing my intuition, and my own instincts pushing me to KILL.

A near miss leaves me sliding across the sand. I jump to avoid two thrown knives, too harried to even pick one up. I am not a rogue. I must act like a rogue. I must listen to my instincts. KILL THEM. DRAIN THEM DRY. I must ignore my instincts. My aura bubbles.

The hammer hits the sand, sending a wave of grit in the air.

Need... to stop or I will HUNT instead.

The face of the hammer wielder, my hands around his ears. He is quite handsome, with skin damaged by the sea and blue eyes like a Turner painting, ethereal and beautiful. A sword slices into my flesh, another. The pain is muted.

I breathe and center myself. The essence is me. The bubbles are like emotions for a mortal. They exist, but they have no impact. They do not have to spread and explode. They can simply exist.

Bubble, bubble toil and trouble sunlight burns and slit throats gurgle…

I come to. The mauler and I are still locked, close to one another, unmoving. His eyes dive into mine with rare serenity, and I slowly, slowly relax my fingers from his head. The claws have drawn a little blood but the man does not show signs of pain.

Only then do I realize the silence. Only then do I remember to close my mouth with an impossibly loud click.

I stand up. I was not about to Devour that man, I simply didn’t want the sand to erupt with thorny growths. I cannot express it, however. It would be admitting weakness. I cannot do that. Let them think what they will.

I leave Anatole’s team to train and look for the ‘hotel’. We have a variety of mortals sent here for short periods. Many of them come from Russia and I have some trouble talking to them, but they all know what I need. I pick up a powerfully-built forester who smells a bit of tea and jam. He slakes my thirst, to an extent. Training here is arduous. My vitality expenditure reaches heights I had not experienced since before I became a Master. Perhaps Anatole was indeed correct and I am pushing myself too far without the occasional release of a Hunt brought to its proper conclusion. I may want to look into it before my mood plummets, along with my patience.

The night ends with some relaxation. We are encouraged to pick up a hobby, and I have decided on a new one besides drawing which I feel reluctant to do here. I have decided that I will play the piano.

“You are picking up the technical aspect very fast, as you are wont to do. Unfortunately, the emotions do not convey,” a mortal with short brown air informs me, speaking French with a strong Russian accent. She blinks and averts her eyes.

“I know. I still wish to learn. Who knows, it could prove useful down the line,” I reply.

“Have you considered another instrument? Like the flute? We also offer singing classes.”

“Oh, trust me, you do not want that.”

The next night, we practice moving as a team again. It appears that we have been assessed and considered wanting on every aspect of our craft, from fighting to diplomacy. As such, Team Willow will practice the basics. We move in formation through a variety of difficult terrain at increasingly higher speeds. On occasion, our formation instructor will create an event by throwing a stone in our direction or by starting a light. When that happens, we are to smoothly change direction to investigate the cause of the disturbance. We have a few false starts, and it takes a few minutes to explain to Esmeray that ‘investigate’ does not mean ‘turn furry and disappear off somewhere’. It takes hours, but eventually we manage to cooperate better.

I find the whole exercise frustrating.

I am used to running at full speed, this whole… tame maneuvering bores me. I must pay attention to alternate paths so that Lars and Esmeray can remain at my side. If there are none, I must signal and the formation closes in a single line behind me. Am I hunting, or am I herding ducklings?

Not to mention, there is nothing to find. I can feel and taste our instructor on the wind. He makes no effort to hide. We run in circles again and again without any outlet, teased by someone that only rules protect. I am going mad.

On the next night, Octave meets me outside of his training room. I feel his aura brush against mine and hiss at the disrespectful way he gauges me. Very cavalier of him!