“I perfectly understand the portents Mistress Void is sending us, but that does not change my decision. To me, dishonor and even death are preferable to setting foot on another world facing damnation. Fifteen years ago, I honored my vows and did all I could to help those few worthy souls escape that fell-touched realm. But what I saw when I walked those lands, what the people did to each other, and how proud they were of it, is not something I can face again. So leave me to my retirement, and spare a prayer for whoever bears this burden in my place.” - Letter penned by former Hierophant Ozcar Striderzon shortly before his suicide.
Wolfgang slowly dipped his brush into a mixture of human blood, cremation ash, and alchemical unguents. Once the painter’s implement was properly coated, he drew another perfect line upon the smooth marble floor of the desecrated temple. This line, along with its hundreds of forebears, formed a complex series of interlocking runes and sigils that filled the space between two great circles. The inner circle was crafted from despoiled green gold, while the surrounding outer one was made of freshly molded lead.
The materials for both pieces of ritual paraphernalia hadn’t been hard to acquire, as Harmas had its own share of dirty secrets ripe for exploitation. Yet, convenient salvage was still salvage, and Wolfgang was loath to risk his life on potentially subpar equipment. Meaning, his nearly complete ritual circle needed to be tested, preferably with a low-risk rite like the one he planned to enact in a few hours' time.
As Wolfgang finished this latest line before moving on to the next, his mind kept returning to the ugly fact that the upcoming ritual was only low-risk in theory. The test spell was mechanically simple to the point that even a rank amateur might fumble their way through it safely. But the exact minutia of this particular casting, especially who it would be targeting, had Wolfgang wishing he had the time and resources to better prepare. Because, despite his ritual circle being designed for safely summoning and binding a high demon, he couldn’t help but fear it wouldn’t be sufficient for Isabelle Gens Silva.
Much to the Black Fly’s chagrin, Scapino had wasted no time in making arrangements for their prisoner to meet the rest of the Troupe. Part of said arrangements loomed over Wolfgang, in the shape of a tall standing mirror half a meter from his circle’s outside edge. Despite his best efforts not to, he kept sneaking the occasional glance at the freshly cleaned looking glass. No disembodied masks floated in the reflection yet, but he still felt like he was being watched. Which he very well might be, as he knew little of mirror magic and even less of whatever working the Troupe used to communicate.
Wolfgang forced himself to refocus on the lines and not to dwell on what he’d seen in a mirror much like this one. Upon first awakening in Harmas and being properly introduced to Scapino and his organization, Wolfgang initially assumed them to be one of those rare vampire cults. A secret society within the Duchies that worshipped the Reaper of Sorrows, with Pater Epulo acting as one of its fell priests. That notion died a shocking death when he first spoke to the Troupe. They were not a cult, nor were they strictly vampires; no, they had a predominantly transactional relationship with the Reaper, and if Wolfgang’s suspicions were correct, a chimera like Scapino numbered among their more mundane members.
This was a cabal of monsters; monsters unbound by even the petty limits Dracon imposed upon the Duchies; monsters in possession of all manner of unspeakable magics and secrets; monsters that Wolfgang was trying to both woo and trick in equal measure. He needed them to need him, and for that to happen, Isabelle’s negotiation needed to fail. But sabotaging his nemesis without triggering the geas she’d put in him, or arousing the Troupe’s suspicion, would not be easy. Thankfully, Wolfgang had a number of options.
The simplest was to be a convincing devil’s advocate, to point out all the potential problems Gens Silva presented. A feat that would be much easier if he could agitate her into making a poor showing before the Troupe. But as for how to catch such a formidable and cunning intellect off balance, well, Wolfgang had been chewing on that problem for a while now, and the answer seemed obvious. For centuries, Gens Silva had been an exemplar of vampire kind, a cold genius who viewed the world with the aloof detachment of any skilled researcher. But then, her brilliance had gone too far, and through defying the oldest of laws, she’d handcrafted a chink in her armor. The Homunculus Knight had been her downfall; all Wolfgang had to do was make sure her crippling attachment to that creature was plain for all to see.
For the next hour, Wolfgang continued his work, expanding and reinforcing the spells woven into the circle. Taking a lesser seance working and modifying it to meet his specifications required slow, laborious effort, but that bothered him little. The opportunity to avenge his previous humiliations and have Gens Silva be the one trammeled and caged was simply too good a motivator.
This period of silent, uninterrupted labor came to an end with the sound of rusty hinges screaming their displeasure at being moved. The doors to the temple had been opened, and now, through them sauntered Scapino, the enchanted safe held under one arm, his trademark smirk firmly in place. Once he was in the fane proper, he held up the small safe like it were a string-wrapped parcel and said. “Special delivery!”
Scapino chuckled at his own joke while bringing the safe up to the repurposed altar. After setting the reinforced container down with a heavy thunk, he circled the desecrated space, examining Wolfgang’s work. “I see you’ve been busy. Are all your preparations finished?”
“Two things remain. First, I need to finish this rune.” Wolfgang gestured to the latest part of his working, then he turned to Scapino. “But for the other part, I’ll need your assistance.”
“Oh, was arranging all this on such short notice not enough for you?”
Ignoring the mockery in his colleague’s voice, Wolfgang elaborated. “I wish to make use of Harma’s royal court. To have them handle a problem for us, and in the process, provide leverage for these negotiations.”
Scapino’s smirk settled into a grimace. “You want them to deal with the Homunculus Knight and the Alukah?”
“If they are truly inside the city, then yes. Is this a problem?”
“Before I answer that, tell me truthfully, how much of the court’s predicament did you anticipate?”
Ah, this had been both a selling and sticking point when he first proposed the plague to Duke Umbria. As an unliving relic from the old empire, Umbria held staunchly traditional views when it came to anything fae, particularly that they should be greeted, as the old saying went, with fire and iron. He’d been extremely leery of the Broodmother’s involvement with the plague, and even more so of what said plague might do to the ruling family of Harmas. Well, that is right up until Wolfgang explained how any possible fae taint would give the Blood Duchies the single greatest post hoc casus belli they could hope for. As once Duke Umbria’s colors flew from Harma’s towers, the exposed corruption within the royal court would justify his conquest.
Speaking slowly and deliberately, Wolfgang explained. “I expected the plague to have debilitating effects on the House of Janic and its close retainers, but not to the extent we’ve seen. The extreme mutations and madness they’ve experienced are likely a side-effect of the unconventional origin of their changeling blood.”
“Yes, binding themselves to the Almgrove to reinvigorate their ancestral taint was an… interesting choice for them. But that has me puzzling over how exactly you learned of their fae connections. That seems a rather too large a secret for even a prodigy like yourself to stumble onto.”
Once again, Scapino was complimenting him, and once again, Wolfgang found himself unnerved by it. Was that the purpose? To keep him off kilter? If so, it was working well, especially when the attached question carried so much baggage. Wolfgang had indeed not stumbled onto this knowledge; it was a cursory secret connected to a much larger one that his sire, Voivode Igori, had repeatedly killed to keep secret. But the Black Fly’s time of keeping his former master’s secrets was over; now they were just another currency he could spend.
“It’s something I learned while working for the Voivode, and is part of a much larger scheme I’d be willing to share with the Troupe once the threat of the Homunculus Knight is dealt with.”
Scapino let out a snort and waved away this barely concealed attempt to manipulate him. “Keep it to yourself then. But what I was getting at earlier is your pestilence did too good a job, and the Harmas court isn’t a potential asset. In fact, judging by what the Duchy ambassador has shared, they’d be a serious danger to our plans if he weren’t keeping them distracted with depravity.”
“Which is why he’d need to frame my proposal correctly,” dryly replied Wolfgang. “The royal court has become a parody of itself, so offer them the chance to continue their pantomime in a way fitting for nobility. Have them organize a grand hunt for the homunculus, with all the ridiculous trappings of such an affair. It will distract our enemies and buy us time to make progress on other fronts.”
The ashborn considered this for a moment before asking. “But what happens if the court succeeds? What if they capture the Homunculus Knight or the Alukah? I doubt they’ll hand over such prizes easily.”
Wolfgang scoffed at that. “Surely you, of all people, don’t need a reminder of how dangerous that pair is. The royal court will just delay them, giving me time to finish the new pestilence, but if they do succeed, it will only be after paying a very bloody price. They’ll be weak and off-balance, unable to stop us from stealing their prisoners and then escaping this city.”
“You put a lot of faith in our enemies. But I do see your point. The current balance with the court just isn’t sustainable, so it's better that we’re the ones to knock it over,” mused Scapino, as his ever-present smile widened. “Yes, I’m seeing the appeal the more I think about it. Once our meeting here is done, I’ll get to work on your little scheme.”
To punctuate this shift in focus, Scapino knelt down beside the safe he’d brought and started opening it. The clatter of heavy chains and the faint immaterial pops of magical bindings coming undone filled the temple, followed by the creak of a lid being opened. With shocking delicacy, the Troupe-member reached into the container and pulled out the cracked skull of Isabelle Gens Silva.
While pointing the pale bone towards the prepared mirror and nearly finished circle, Scapino said. “I don’t know about you, Wolfgang, but I have many, many questions to ask of our potential new colleague.”
With great effort, the Black Fly kept his expression perfectly neutral. “I do as well.”
Isabelle stared up at the blood-spattered rafters overhead and let out a weary sigh. “How many is this?”
“This will be the second one of the month, my lady,” replied Pavlos of Pleuron, the ghostly steward of Thoas Citadel, with a tone even more stoic than normal.
Her lips formed into a thin line, while she automatically did the blood pressure and fluid dynamics calculations connected to this latest mess. “Did he say why?”
Pavlos was silent for a moment before answering. “Count Gens Silva found Elena cleaning the study in a suspicious manner. He interrogated her and found no obvious signs of treachery, but decided the potential risks were too great.”
Translated from the steward’s sanitized language, this meant Isabelle’s sire, Count Archeon Gens Silva, had accosted a dim-witted servant, and when her excuses didn’t assuage his paranoia, he ripped the idiot girl’s head clean off. Resulting in a rather spectacular geyser of blood that would take another batch of poor servants much time and effort to clean up after.
Finally, looking away from this scene of wasteful bloodshed, Isabelle asked. “Where is my sire now?”
“In the laboratory tower, where he is not to be disturbed.”
She bit down on a scoff. Once news of this latest episode spread through the citadel, its occupants, be they vampire, mortal, or other, would work hard to be as far away from their overlord as possible. But hopefully, in a night or two's time, Archeon would emerge from his sanctum with at least a pretense of sanity in place. Then the question would be how long until his next outburst, and who would be unlucky enough to be caught up in it. So far, only hapless servants and a few dull constructs had suffered Archeon’s paranoid wrath, but Isabelle knew it was only a matter of time until her sire murdered one of his own scions.
While turning to leave the study, Isabelle said. “I will be returning to my own research now. Have three thralls, preferably more disposable ones, get to work cleaning this up. We’ll want the room presentable for when our master rejoins us.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Isabelle would, in fact, not be returning to her research; it would have to wait until a far more pressing project had reached completion. She needed to figure out how to assassinate her sire while successfully usurping his knowledge and throne. Despite all she might gain from pulling off such a coup, the idea brought little pleasure to Isabelle. While the last several decades had seen Archeon descend into madness, in the two centuries before that, Isabelle had known him as a truly remarkable man. Over that span, from her initial siring until the experiment that started his downward spiral, he’d been many things to her, a mentor, a lover, a colleague, even a confidant. But now, he was not just a threat; he was a liability, one she just couldn’t tolerate.
As that grim truth settled into place, Isabelle tripped, collapsing bodily to the floor with a very undignified grunt. Utterly confused, she looked back at the origin of her fall and found one of the floor tiles in the hallway missing, leaving a pitch-black gap. Before this could settle into her mind, another tile snapped free, and then another and another. She came to her feet, just in time for the floor to completely collapse, sending her plunging down into darkness. As the umbra consumed her, she felt a mix of genuine awe and horror. Had her sire truly prepared so thoroughly that even the thought of betrayal would invite reprisals from his citadel?
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No, that wasn’t the case, and this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Isabelle remembered what happened next; she remembered the future, and that meant she was stuck in the past. Slowly, she pulled herself free from the dream-like stupor her mind defaulted to when left alone in the quiet dark of her imprisonment.
As her mind emerged from bitter memories, she realized the strangeness of her current situation. This wasn’t like when her plagiarist clumsily infiltrated her mind. She was being summoned, but by whom and to where, she knew not. For a brief moment, Isabelle allowed herself the tiniest speck of hope. Perhaps while she slept, Natalie and Cole had rescued her? No, as much as she wished that to be the case, circumstances weren’t right. Isabelle wasn’t being pulled into a mindscape of red lilies, nor was she being fed familiar blood. The spells coiling around her were harsh and overbearing, like bindings for a prisoner. Which meant, unless she’d misjudged terribly, her plagiarist had done as he’d been told. Isabelle allowed herself the tiniest smile as the darkness around her faded and she joined the meeting she’d demanded.
Reality coalesced around Isabelle as her arcane senses got to work compensating for her missing physical ones. Her skull sat on a polished stone floor in the middle of an over-engineered ritual circle. The circle was the source of the heavy-handed bindings lying open her, and she could not sense much beyond its limits. But from the little Aetheric information allowed to leak through the circle, she could tell her present location was a place of terrible blasphemy. Where thick layers of consecration and divine blessing had been deliberately and meticulously despoiled in such a way, the once-hallowed space made a perfect medium for fell corruption to fester.
Peering through the binding circle and this Aetheric murk like they were a dirty window and a thin smoke cloud, Isabelle noticed two silhouettes that quickly resolved into a pair of vampires, one familiar, one not. She paid Wolfgang little heed, only taking a moment to enjoy the tension in his posture, and instead focused on the ridiculously dressed newcomer. Clad in a green striped tunic and a cooper’s cloak, the stranger hid his features behind a smirking mask and a shabby cap with a feather in it.
Clearly sensing her attention, the costumed vampire offered a mockingly deep bow. “Ah! Countess-in-exile Isabelle Gens Silva, I have awaited this moment for a very long time!”
There was something strange to this masked fool; his presence in the Aether carried faint hints of something even worse than the curse of vamperism. Whatever power dwelled within him, it felt remarkably similar to the local corruption; in fact, the slight Aetheric discord between such similar yet overlapping sources was the only reason Isabelle noticed it. And good that she did, as these parallel examples of fell taint and how they interacted was enough to properly identify what aspect of the Dark was at work here. Grief, loss, absence, all markers of the Reaper of Sorrows and her sordid domain. Which, while concerning enough on its own, added an important clue to who she was dealing with.
The masked vampire glanced at Wolfgang. “From what I’ve heard, she was never the shy type. Is your spell working?”
“Yes, she’s here, and aware of us. I can feel her testing the bindings.”
“Well then,” replied the stranger as he turned to her. “Then allow me to introduce myself! I am-”
“Adrian Von Riechtor or Francesco Scapin.” Isabelle interrupted, her voice echoing out from the skull. “Or at least those are the aliases you used in Glockmire and Vindabon. In retrospect, I should have guessed the ashborn who’s been stalking me, and mine would be the one responsible for saving Aloysius Wolfgang Tyto from his own failures.”
It was most enjoyable how her plagiarist fought not to flinch upon hearing his full name. Scapin, or whatever his name was, by contrast, had the decorum to appear contrite. “For the sake of simplicity, and to mark our new relationship, please call me Scapino; it is as close as I have to a proper name these nights.”
“Our new relationship?” Isabelle asked, while assessing the genial smarminess in the ashborn’s voice.
“Yes, one that must first be built upon a sincere apology. My organization’s actions have repeatedly harmed your magnum opus and your latest student. Until very recently, we were unaware of your… survival, and had been pursuing the Homunculus Knight with the preconception that he was simply a rogue experiment fallen under our great enemy’s influence. But now that the truth has come into focus, and we better understand your brilliant machinations of rebuilding your power base right under the so-called Tenth God’s nose, we’d like to speak as potential colleagues, not enemies.”
Such polite words, hiding such impolite insinuations. Her abductors had clear connections to the Reaper of Sorrows, and the Reaper knew firsthand of Isabelle’s dealings with Master Time, thanks to the former countess’s efforts to stymie her psychic attack on Natalie. Meaning, this notion about rebuilding her power base in secret was a pretense for her to distance herself from Master Time, while also making sure she knew they considered her a willing or unwilling pawn of their patron deity’s rival. Such interwoven layers of machinations almost made her nostalgic for Duchy politics.
“And what organization do you represent, Scapino?” She asked, without acknowledging or accepting his supposed apology.”
Scapino walked along the edge of the circle until he stood next to a large obstruction that Isabelle’s stymied arcane senses couldn’t quite make out. Reaching the object’s side, he pulled down a heavy cloth, revealing it to be a full-body mirror. Patting the looking glass’s side, the masked ashborn said. “We call ourselves the Troupe. Simple, I know, but very apt.”
With a flourish of one hand, Scapino produced a piece of thin, blade-like crystal, then stabbed it into the mirror. Three long cracks spidered out across the glass, separating it into as many sections. A low current of strange power thrummed within each piece as they became something more than tools of vanity. Even with the bindings hampering her, Isabelle could make out the hints of complex dimensional magic. The illusionary space within the three reflections was being peeled open, producing a blinding deluge as the light bouncing off the glass reacted poorly to this violation of the natural order.
A pair of presences slithered into the false worlds of the reflection, emerging through the rents torn in a phantom section of reality, before settling into the mirror, with practiced wase. As the brightness born of light’s confusion faded, Isabelle gazed upon the avatars of these new arrivals. Each occupying one-third of the cracked mirror was a pair of disembodied masks. The mask to the right was carved from dark wood and depicted a pudgy middle-aged man with rosy cheeks, while the mask to the left was of a shiny metallic red material and cast in the shape of a cruel old merchant’s sneer.
Gesturing at these floating masks with a showman’s gusto, Scapino proclaimed. “May I present two of my Troupe’s most esteemed members: Dottore and Pantalone!”
Dottore… that was a familiar word, a variant of the Old Imperial term for exemplary teachers or physicians. As for Pantalone, Isabelle could only think of some very coarse remarks she’d heard regarding Concordian business practices, and how that city-state’s elite would drop their pants if paid enough. Yet curious and ridiculous as these code names were, Isabelle found them much less interesting than the third section of the split mirror, which lacked an occupant. Was another member of this Troupe arriving late, or was something else at hand?
The dark wooden mask of a fat man’s face spoke in a shockingly melodic voice. “I have read some of your surviving work, Countess Gens Silva. Your approach to dealing with tissue rejection in living subjects is remarkably efficient when used in specialized constructs.”
“Bah! None of thy boffin talk, let us be-about the true matter at hand-eh!” Spat the other mask. This one’s every rasping word came laden with both venom and an Old Imperial accent.
Scapino clicked his tongue. “Pantalone, please, decorum must come before business.”
The red mask produced a phlegmy scoff that quickly devolved into a mix of muted coughs and archaic curses. Silently watching this exchange, Isabelle guessed it would be easy for a lesser mind to underestimate these three masked men as mere buffons playing at being powerful. But she’d seen the magic at their disposal, and even caught arcane echoes of what hid behind those masks. Pantalone was old and withered, but made of such spiteful, sturdy stuff that he seemed more a cruel fossil than a person. Whereas Dottore overflowed with such ever-shifting, barely contained vitality, it shocked Isabelle that he stayed coherent. Whatever these two were, they at the very least matched an ashborn like Scapino in terms of monstrousness.
So naturally, Isabelle adopted her most aloof tone and asked. “What do you want?”
“To be free from the tyranny of death.” Answered Scapino instantly. “The Troupe is a consortium of like-minded individuals united in the goal of finding a method to truly live forever under our own terms. A goal, judging by your research, you must see the merit of.”
“I do.” She replied curtly, while silently putting together how Scapino had recognized Cole when he came to Glockmire. The smarmy bastard must have been observing her from shortly after she revealed her Homunculus Knight until Dracon’s destruction of her research.
Dottore spoke then, his voice uncanny in its smoothness. “We have pursued myriad options in this effort, with many of them providing a bounty of knowledge and power, but none offering the perfection we desire.”
“Which is why your magnum opus is of such interest to us, Countess Gens Silva,” Scapino added. “If you were to join your considerable skill and insight to our project, then achieving true immortality could be in reach.”
Isabelle was, for once, glad she didn’t have lips anymore, so she didn’t need to hide her smirk. The Troupe thought her work might be the missing piece to this puzzle they struggled so hard to finish, having not realized she’d already completed a greater picture than what they imagined.
“As I communicated to Aloysius, I understand the value of my research and see how it will revolutionize this world and many more. Which leads to the obvious question: What will you give me in exchange for my help?”
“At first, thy freedom. Then once we see you are committed to our troth: a mask and all that goeth with it.” Replied Pantalone. “We offer thee membership to the Troupe. A rare boon that comes with access to great fortunes, of treasure, knowledge, and power, yet I imagine that will do little to sway thee. But what might, is the idea of all our resources committed to your research and revenge. You would have everything you need to perfect what was proven in the Homunculus Knight’s design. Our organization will shield thee from Dracon and the Tenth God until it is time to make both archleech and death deity obsolete. Then, once one is ash, and the other a broken delusion, we will be truly free of the ultimate shackle and ready to become whatever we wish to be.”
As the masked miser spoke, his words danced between different dialects as hints of a life even longer than Isabelle’s own spilled out in his eagerness. Once again, it would be so easy to dismiss this as the ravings of a mad old monster, but two things kept the former countess from falling into that trap. The first was the Reaper’s involvement; canny even by godly standards, she wouldn’t invest so much in such a group as this Trope without a very good reason. The second factor was that the third section of the broken mirror was no longer empty, and Isabelle hadn’t noticed its occupant's arrival.
There had been no hint of magic, nor a flash of disturbed light, just the sudden presence of a third mask. Crafted from delicate pale porcelain, the mask was shaped like a dove’s face and sported expertly painted multi-color patterns along its cheeks. Isabelle strained her hampered senses in hopes of uncovering something about this newcomer, but there was nothing; no sign of spellwork, nor the echoes she’d noticed with the other two, just the mask. This was a clear display of concerningly subtle power, and the threat carried with it unsettled Isabelle.
Scapino noticed the third mask then, and offered it what might have been a genuine bow. “Ah! Colombina! I’d thought Magnifico would be joining us this evening, but your arrival is a pleasant surprise.”
“Magnifico is busy with matters in the far-east.” Replied Colombina, in a surprisingly mundane female voice, lacking any hint of accent or emotion. “Due to my expertise and seniority, I will be fulfilling this obligation. Are there any objections?”
The other masks shook their heads, and Colombina nodded before settling her attention on Isabelle. “Countess Gens Silva, while my colleagues have expressed our interest in your research, I must voice our doubts. The details and mechanics behind your creation’s ability to supposedly resurrect from death are still opaque. Before any deals can be struck, we need to know what exactly we are buying.”
Everyone always wants a free sample, and Isabelle wasn’t in the mood to give one. Instead, she shifted topics to another matter. “Before we move on to business, I still have doubts of my own. You claim to be committed to defeating death, yet you serve a goddess of grief. Why would the Reaper, an entity that actively feeds off of death and suffering, provide such heavy-handed support to your cause?”
“We seek to triumph over death, not eliminate it. True immortality, and the freedom that comes with it, is far too valuable of a boon to share widely. The cycle of life and death will continue for the vast majority of the population.” Answered Colombina.
This plan had merit, as it closely matched Isabelle’s own ideas of how to use her research. “You intend to expand and improve upon the Duchy model by creating a society ruled over by an over-caste of select immortals?”
Scapino let out a small laugh. “Not exactly. Unlike Dracon, we do not dream of an empire, instead we desire total personal freedom, which will require anyone other than us to be shackled. We will keep true immortality to ourselves, but offer a lesser version of that gift to those who can afford it; a lesser version, mind you we can revoke at any given time. Mortality would be turned from a universal constant to a consequence befalling those who violate our liberties.”
He then spun one of his fingers in a backward rolling motion and said. “But returning to your question regarding the Reaper’s support. Once immortality becomes a commodity, every death becomes an avoidable tragedy. Life for those without our gift would be a constant, panicked struggle to earn even a diluted form of immortality. Fear of death, and especially loss, will define the existence of millions, for they will know every moment of grief and sorrow is something that could have been avoided if they just had a little more time.”
As the full scale of the Troupe’s plan, and why the Reaper was working so hard to enact it, came crashing down on Isabelle, she couldn’t help but be stunned by the sheer hubris involved. “You… would completely redefine humanity’s relationship with death. Allowing the Reaper of Sorrows to supplant Master Time.”
“Yes, and we will do similar with the other members of the Pantheon. Perhaps, not to the same degree, afterall, the Reaper is our patron, but the remaining deities will be damaged until they are unable to limit us. This world would no longer be under the purview of any god, leaving us its true masters.” Said Dottore, his musical voice carrying undisguised glee.
Isabelle allowed her mind to explore all these possibilities, to consider what damage and suffering would be required to permanently alter the population of Vardis in such a way to make this dark dream of untrammeled freedom come true. The mutilation of culture, thought, and general spiritual consensus would match the most depraved efforts of the Fae, and risked permanently tainting the world in ways the Dark would find most appealing.
This Troupe, this cavalcade of lunatics and monsters, intended to tear down all in the world they saw as limiting, uncaring of what other parts of reality might break as a consequence. They were so gleefully arrogant in their plans that it made Isabelle feel sick in a way she’d thought her unliving mind had long since discarded. These bastards would take the products of her genius and use them not to forge a new chapter in humanity’s evolution, but to turn the world into a machine of suffering for their own benefit.
Yet, a very small, very unwelcome voice inside of Isabelle couldn’t help but point out her hypocrisy. Had she not planned something concerningly similar? To take the destiny of Vardis and the human species into her own hands? Of course, her motivations and ultimate goal were different then this… depravity, but the hubris currently on display, that struck a very uncomfortable chord within her. Looking at the masked faces in the mirror, Isabelle couldn’t deny that she faced twisted reflections of herself, and distorted or not, a reflection carried at least part of who a person was.
Terribly uncomfortable emotions stirred deep within her armored heart, ones she’d last felt regarding her scheme to steal Natalie’s body. Isabelle was ashamed of who she’d been and who she could yet become. How close had she come to becoming like the quartet of masked monsters she now faced? What separated her utter certainty in her path from the arrogant folly on display? Only one answer came to mind, and it was strangely both soothing and uncomfortable. Cole, and now Natalie, had helped her stay on this side of the mirror’s reflection.
A genuine throb of loneliness passed through Isabelle’s soul; she missed her lovers and wished more than anything they’d rescue her soon. Yet, a mix of her own stubborn pride and grim practicality put a dampener on that desire. She could not tolerate the risk of either Cole or Natalie falling into the clutches of the Troupe. But there was no denying that those two would be coming for her, meaning she needed to protect them the best she could. Meaning she needed to sabotage these bastards as much as possible.
“Your plan for the Pantheon is interesting. Now, what questions did you have about my creation?”
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