The vampire did not hear the cries of the crew as they begged him and Emryk to stop their bloodbath. He saw not the Baron’s conflict written so plainly on his face, the desire to rip and tear and rend undead flesh from bone, to withdraw from Lucien’s account what he had robbed from Leo’s. He would no doubt have taken great pleasure in perverting the Baron’s morals, even at the cost of his own life. It had already cost him his body, the larger man actually holding his own against Lucien, doling out as much punishment as he had received, matching Lucien’s bestial nature with one of hsi own. But he did not have the chance to revel in that moment.
Lucien Kilta awoke within an all-too familiar manor. The family portrait stood at the top of the staircase, its frame charred and blackened, large claw marks through its center. The faces of all were obscured or rendered unrecognizable. His own was a charred mark, deliberately burned out. Lucien lashed out as he passed, his claws raking across the frame, upsetting it and sending it tumbling from its hook. The portrait toppled to the floor, hitting not with a crash, but with a gentle shoosh as it disintegrated into ash.
The man-shaped monster continued to ascend the staircase, a faint tapping echoing through the scorched and burned halls. Flakes of ash and burnt wood floated through the air on an unseen wind, blowing past the various trophies mounted upon the wall; a necklace composed of shining pieces of glass strung together; a glassy face mask, half-melted, perpetually dripping; a pair of brilliant, blazing orange fairy wings, proudly mounted on display. Lucien gave these a sneer as he passed, finally reaching the top of the steps.
A massive pair of double doors stood before him, ornate and ruined. Beautiful wood with silver filigree, now blackened, charred, and barely holding together. Standing in front of the doors was a small girl. She must have been no older than 16 years, certainly not Delilah. She looked up at him with pleading orange eyes that grew even wider as Lucien smoothly drew his blade and stabbed it within her heart, piercing her body and pinning it to the door behind. The light had no sooner left her eyes than the doors swung open, silent as a tomb, dragging her corpse with them. Lucien stepped inside, beholding all the room had to offer.
It was a chair. High-backed, ornate, comfortable. Black and silver whorls decorated it, flame-licked wood blending with stains of varnish and blood. Lucien took his seat, arms settling on the rests. He glanced down, feeling something beneath his right hand. Perched atop the rest, right where his hand sat, were two warm, polished copper coins. He picked them up, clutching them tight before tossing them away, a harsh noise heralding their exit.
And so the Lord of Scraps surveyed his domain, his ruined kingdom, and all that he had destroyed to reach his throne. And his mad laughter echoed in its silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucien awoke with bleary eyes squinted against whatever light dared to stab at him. He heard the quiet shuffle of fabric and feathers, and if the hard table against his back did not confirm his suspicions about being within the wisewoman’s clinic, the pungent scent of various roots and herbs provided more than enough evidence. Not wishing to endure a scolding from Emer that managed to bore more than intimidate him, Lucien slipped out with unnaturally quiet steps, although he could do nothing about the blasted door creaking open and shut.
He had slunk back to his chambers, the call of whistling wind informing the vampire that they had taken to the skies. Presumably his little row with the Baron had caused enough uproar that the ship had been forced to leave. No doubt he would be getting an earful from O’Cain about that later.
Lucien grimaced at the state of his chambers, clearly someone had thought it funny to erect a sheet covering the Al-Ashtavahk-sized hole in his wall, as well as one across the doorway to provide some form of privacy. He would have to speak to Mal and get this taken care of quickly. Lucien began putting his quarters back in proper order, snapping the neck of one bottle and drinking from it directly. As the blood hit his tongue, it was as though he had only previously been half-awake. His senses returned, vision sharpened, hearing cleared. Lucien could feel the uncomfortable scrape of bandages around his hand and a new weight around his wrist that was not there before.
He yanked back his sleeve to reveal the offending article: a bracelet of bone, firmly clasped around his wrist. Lucien snarled, knowing there was only one such person aboard this ship who could construct such a thing. Had the necromancer really been cowed by O’Cain to affix something to his person? Did he have a matching one that tightened whenever Lucien was close enough to bury his fangs in the fairy’s neck? He would have to have words with her.
The news of a crew meeting had reached his ears, some poor soul attempting to knock on the curtain like it was a door. He delivered his message and quickly scurried off, his heart nearly beating out of its chest. It was good to know that there were at least still some aboard this ship who feared him. Then again, after watching Lucien go head to head with a man of the Baron’s stature perhaps some formerly brave souls had been reduced to cowards. Wonderful.
Lucien discarded the bandages quickly, the blood within his system working to worm the shards of glass out and seal the wounds. He polished off the first bottle and cracked open a second, savoring this one a little more. The first one had been to sate his hunger, this was for his enjoyment. As he set his desk back upright, Lucien found the journal he had found what felt like a lifetime ago, left in the pocket of his cloak. It had fallen page side down, and when he lifted it up he flipped through it absently, until his eyes were drawn to the sketch of a certain ring. The notes were worrying, and something nagged at the back of his mind.
Lucien changed into fresh clothes, ones that were not doused in splinters and liquid copper. He had washed, and for all intents and purposes had reinstated his regular refined appearance. Tucking away a flask of some of his more flavorful mead, Lucien whispered through the halls of the ship, arriving in the mess as it was already quite full. Yet somehow he still managed to slip in unnoticed by all, aiming for the far corner. He spotted two figures there already, one whom he wished to speak with and the other whom he was surprised to see without larger company.
“I was surprised to wake at all.” Lucien muttered, slipping onto Emer’s other side. “I thought the Baron would have ended me in his rage, or that you would have finished the job.” Lucien flexed his hand, barely any blemish in the skin where only hours ago there had been several large shards of glass. “Am I correct to assume you tended my wounds?”
