Legend of Ransera

Somewhere in Gel'Grandal
60th of Searing, 124 of Steel

Aurin tried; he really did.

He was in the Imperium, overseeing a few things for Portions for Foxes, his keiretsu, reconnoitering with Herr Valentin Valentin on his quest to steal from the untouchable rich and, well, line his own pockets, and he was checking up on Carina and her hare-brained scheme that seemed like it was never going to come into fruition, alas. She needed Imogen around to balance out her particular brand of intoxicant-fueled crazy. Not that he was one to talk.

Burning the candle from both ends, it was night now, and he had come most recently from Zaichaer, where the covens and, from what he gathered, the government, was trying to figure out what to do with Dreyfus Monteliyet, der Vampir. Carina, being a Railrunner herself, had supplied him with some intelligence that she thought might help. It had required quite a bit of research on his own, but he thought he had traced down a few of the living leeches.

He couldn't stay long and he was, he thought, rather hot on the trail. There would be goods soon gathered in Kalzasi that needed his particular magic trick to get it to Torin's valley and the people there who depended upon him. While the runesmith was abroad in Sol'Valen, learning elven tricks, Aurin had agreed to look out for his valley. For once, that wasn't just a double entendre.

"Why do they always go to ground in the sewers?" he asked himself quietly, rhetorically.

Standing on the manhole, he tested the slipstream. Not wanting to test his might against the heavy metal, he judged it safe, then blipped out of existence, and back in, down in the darkness. He landed on his feet, crouched down and quiet, letting his eyes adjust. A quick trick of the glamours and he didn't have to smell what was rotten in the state of Gel'Grandal's underground. Best that way. Fuckers thought their shit didn't stink.

Thankfully, he had landed someplace dry. The concrete was moist and gritty under his bootheels, and he made a reflexive note to ensure he kept his footing.

He reached out with his knowing trick and caught the "scent" of blood. That wasn't it, not exactly, but he hadn't been formally trained with this one and he parsed the knowing via one of the senses he did understand. There were other things down here, he felt; dangerous things lived below.

So be it. He had blades and artefacts and other things to get him through. He had to know what the deal was with these so-called Vitalasi, how to protect his people from them, and, perhaps, how to control them for his own purposes.

Not for the first time, he was glad of the harrowing experience of a dual initiation for all that he had his seeming trick. It was summer in a sewer, and he could convince his nose that he was skipping through an orchard of cherry trees blossoming. He found a rhythm that wasn't regular, steps, hops, and the occasional vault to keep his boots clean. Anyway, he didn't want a bloodsucker to hear steady footsteps following lest they be warned to prepare an ambush. He always wanted surprise on his side. It required his arcane sense to track the bloodsucker, however.

Aurin was like a bloodhound.

Perhaps that was why he was seen before he saw. He was seen by someone other than his prey. But the hairs on the back of his neck rose and he paused, examining his options at a crossroads, though he knew already which direction his quarry had gone. When words came, his hazel gaze snapped to track it, and he saw something in the dark. His sembling trick sensed more: a soul of sorts, the stink of something like necromancy. Gods, he still had a visceral sense memory of the taste of ghostwine, and trauma to remind him what that taste brought. Not a necromancer, he decided, nor another bloodsucker.

Odd. Redvein, that wasn't slang he knew. Kinvaren, however, was a name associated with his prey.

"Hunting a Kinvaren down in the muck, friend," he said, and friend was more a wary warning than any sort of affection offered to any stranger in the sewers of the Imperial capital.

There were comforting hilts in his hands, and he didn't seek danger without all the runeforged artefacts Torin had created for him. He sensed similar magics upon the stranger, as well, so he was well-equipped whoever he was. Aurin hadn't anticipated the Kinvaren having allies down here, and he briefly considered a vault to safety rather than risk an ignominious death down here.

But if he couldn't figure out how to exterminate a bloodsucker tonight, he might still come away with this with some worthy intelligence, and so he stayed.

"And you?"

Necromancy, he decided. The Grymalka had sort of accepted him, though he hadn't been initiated as he had been into several others of the major covens of Zaichaer. That was fine. As long as he had them on his side, he was content to leave their works far from him. There was too much of his trauma tied up in ghostwine-soaked memories, but he had been listening to them speak, learning from them. His ambitions aimed high and information was his currency; the more he knew about just about anything, the better.

His sembling trick was potent, but he didn't have all that much experience with the undead and he didn't want to spend too much time studying the man. At the moment, his magically amplified instincts said this one wasn't an immediate threat to him, and that he seemed to be speaking truth insofar as he was sharing.

Aurin didn't pull one of his blades, though he could be quick on the draw if he needed to be.

"Good on you and your allies," he allowed gruffly. He squinted at the finger bone compass, and considered for a moment before adding, "That aligns with the trail I'm following."

"A powerful bloodsucker threatens people I care about in another realm," he explained, leaving out identifying information. This one might be a temporary ally, but he was hardly Aurin's bosom companion. "I caught a trail here. Investigated. In following up, I uncovered some of the Kinraven activity. The one I'm hunting... hm... seems weaker than the one I have my eye on outside the Imperium. I want to learn how to control and eliminate them if the need arises. This one seems like someone ought to take him out." He paused, the alert, almost feral vulpine look on his face melting into a conspiratorial smirk. "Are we playing for the same team tonight?"

It was a tentative offer, but it was in good faith. He didn't know what this man was, nor what he might sense innately. Anyway, Aurin had long ago learned that clever half-truths were better than outright lies, but he wasn't lying—at least not here and now. He didn't want to take out someone who was of the same mind as he was with regard to this Kinraven bloodsucker, and it would be nice to have someone to watch his back going into unknown territory.

As soon as the Kinraven was down, he might have to watch his back again, but...

"The threat to my people isn't a Kinraven," he clarified, "but I do business in Gel'Grandal and, well, they seem like bastard fucks. So if I can learn a thing or two by hunting and staking a less powerful one, then I'll be better prepared if the big bad becomes a problem. So this is pro bono work on my part. I'm Aurin Kavafis." He didn't bother coming up with one of his personae; he was wearing his own face today anyway. He didn't go into his connection with Zaichaer's covens, either. Whatever this Masagh of the Creth knights did or didn't tell him, he was going to follow up with the Grymalka. It wasn't that he intended to betray Masagh, but the world was full of fair weather friends, and he didn't know how easily this one would flip to enemy once the Kinraven blood was spilled.

He found himself pointing the direction of the trail with one of his knives. Oops, he thought, not remembering pulling it. But he sheathed it before Masagh made his back and open target. Trust worked both ways, and would be tenuous at first.

"Mm." He misliked sharing his arsenal, but tit for tat. "Semblance, Masquerade, Traversion, and some Negation." He was being honest, if underselling. Negation was the only one of his runes that he hadn't mastered, at least according to the witches he knew, and they were particular about their hierarchies. That was why he preferred being a bit of an outside contractor, unless they wanted to make him their Witch-King or something. Then he might even return to Cathena to see who all might have survived past shenanigans. But for now, he had to focus on the task at hand. Daydreaming was for daytime, and it was never day down here.

"Using Masquerade to mask the smell," he added with a short bark of laughter. "Let me know if you'd like me to do the same for you." He was using the fancier names for his tricks so he didn't seem what he was—self-trained in most of them. Seeing, seeing, traveling, and warding were how he thought of his tricks, but now that he trucked with witches, had a master enchanter in his back pocket, and the like, he liked to be able to communicate intelligently when he could.

"Mists," he cursed, managing not to jump at the necromancer's hair-trigger response as well as to the warped beast he had killed. It reminded him of the mist-corrupted creatures that had roamed Zaichaer's streets. Gross.

"That way," he indicated quietly. He considered taking point, but much preferred not having his back bared to someone who could fling a blade as well as, if not better than, he could.

"We're getting closer." This was quieter still. He didn't know how keen a vampire's senses were, but he imagined they were keener than his own. Hence, everything was coming in filtered through his Rune of Semblance. "I think it's just the one. Easy kill. Relatively. Do you need information from him or just his true death?"

"The threat to my people isn't a Kinraven," he said again. "It's a Monteliyet. Potential threat." It was entirely possible the deals Eshar and Valencia had made with him would prove mutually beneficial, especially the one Valencia would pay for with what the Zaichaeri government was giving away for free. Well, if it benefited the covens, who was he to say no? But he would like to know how to eliminate the threat if Monteliyet became a threat.

"I—"

And the Kinraven must have been able to obscure his aura somewhat because Aurin had not seen that coming. Something knocked Masagh back and into a pillar, and Aurin just danced back and flung both his runeforged knives at the shadow. They landed with a satisfying, wet pair of thunks and then the spell steel released a messy bit of spellwork, disrupting the aura of his victim. He didn't know exactly what it would do; it might depend on where they knives scored. In any case, they wouldn't do anything good, but it might have been wishful thinking that they would take down an unsuspecting vampire.

He called to them silently and the knives appeared once more in his hands. He flicked them out and down to his sides, trying to get the blood off of them. Then he focused his Semblance upon the shadowy attacker.

"My friend here just wants to ask you some questions," he called out. And then he's going to help me kill you. It would be difficult to saw its head off with these knives, but thankfully, they weren't the only blades he had on him. To each task, there was a tool.

With a blip, he vaulted elsewhere, pitched his voice to a different timbre.

"You're surrounded. Best give up, no?"