[b][center]Evening, Last Seed 16 Evermore Castle[/center][/b] [hr] The sight was equally familiar and alien to Marcel. He could feel the years-old alienation creep up through his muscles the moment he passed through the doors into the Royal Garden. The maddeningly expensive clothing, the contempt and corruption hidden beneath the layers of dress and makeup, the false smiles, empty conversations... He'd been here before. He'd never really enjoyed it. And now here he was, forced to endure it all over again. With his few friends, at least he could find a couple of chuckles in the gigantic game of pretense; now here he was, alone, with his closest companions no closer than mere acquaintances. It was a special kind of Hell. He wasn't sure as to what exactly what he was supposed to be doing here; not in terms of objectives, but more so in ways to achieve said objectives. He'd never been the most sociable one, especially in high exposure missions such as these. Having had his fair share of embarrassments and faux pas in such higher circles, he knew he was way out of his league in these environments. He wasn't a bad talker; it was just the constant feeling of distance between all the posh folks and himself. He'd much rather discuss Imga subspecies with his chemist friends, in a comfortable inn by the Imperial City's Market District. Gods knew, even hunting for proof of the mythical mold-troll in the dankest caves of the Colovian Range could be a better pastime. But a duty is a duty, he assured himself, and Marcel had always been proud of his determination to achieve his objective. Even amongst his bizarre and constantly changing group of comrades, he was fairly sure that there was nobody else as proficient in the art of the Hunt as him. At least, nobody still alive. “We truly are an inauspicious bunch,” he thought to himself. Or was it fair to say “We”? Marcel had never been part of them, he figured. He’d shared moments and memories, but he’d never shared the general flow. Then again, had he ever shared that with anyone? Theodora, maybe? Master Diarmid? He’d never know. If only he were around to ask… The melancholy train of thought would’ve indubitably driven Marcel to further sorrow, had he not accidentally bumped into another guest in his absent-mindedness and spilled the guest’s drink all over the both of them. “Oh, you little shit, have you any idea how much that costs-Marcel?” “Master Diarmid?” So shocked were their voices, one could assume that they’d been on the business end of a Storm Atronach. Of course, thankfully, no such thing had happened. For a while, at the very least. “Did it take you this long to find me? You could’ve just asked around the Eater’s Lodge! I kid, I kid, of course. My boy! How have you been?” the old Breton was peppering Marcel with words faster than he could respond. By the time he could stammer out a response, Marcel found himself in a hug almost strong enough to burst his throat back open. It wasn’t until the onset of his coughing that Marcel was let free of the man’s grasp. “Ah ha, you’ve always been a lightweight, my boy. But fret not! This old man’s here to solve all your problems. You caught the cold?” “Actually, sir,” Marcel weakly replied, “I caught a halberd blade with my neck.” He pointed at the thick serving of bandages underneath his gorget. “My, your humor has improved… I see that the same cannot be said about your fencing skills, however.” The old man’s tone quickly hardened as he leaned in with a serious gaze. “Halberds? Are you mad, my boy? Is it that lass from Skingrad? Did you finally earn her ire?” “It’s a long story, as you can ascertain, dear sir. It’s been far too long…” “Yes indeed. Now you’re going to tell me how my last pupil nearly got himself beheaded, and more importantly, what in the name of the Seventeen Hells are you doing here? Don’t think I don’t remember you drinking laxatives to avoid court invitations!” “It’s uh… Vampires, sir. We’re hunting Vampires.” Diarmid lost track of his boisterous behavior for a moment, dumbstruck like a lamb face to face with a tiger. Regaining his composure almost instantly, he realized the implications of his pupil’s words and began eyeing the surroundings with catlike perception. “You’re suggesting Vampires are amongst us? Here? Ugh… No surprise. There’s always a couple of these nobles who aren’t actually Bumfuck the Third but actually Bumfuck the First. You know the latest decree, our regulations say-” “They plot against the conference of nobles here, sir! We must-“ Marcel’s warning was interrupted quickly by a crashing sound and a sudden chilling flow. The duo turned to face a fair scattering of red-tinted ice on the ground. Realizing the implications as his mentor stepped forward, Marcel shivered momentarily as the former remains of Mora-knows-who cracked beneath the man’s boots. It didn’t take too long for the old Breton to come to his senses either. “That bitch! Hold her! Hold her!” Diarmid began screaming as he pointed at Sylette, but they were too late. Already by mid-sentence, multiple vampires had burst into the hall and begun painting it crimson. “It’s not her! It’s him!” Marcel yelled as he began rushing after another figure, to him, an Altmer – to others, who knows. At least one nobleman who was adept enough to hear Marcel attempted to stop the mer from moving by slamming into him; for his efforts he was rewarded by a sudden swipe into his stomach, which spilled his intestines out like a bundle of squirming snakes. Diarmid tried to follow his pupil, but was attacked by a frenzied, fat Nord woman wielding a cleaver. Dodging one strike and catching another with his forearm, he found the shallow cut annoying enough for him to drop all pretense of civilized demeanor and slap the woman away with the back of his hand, caving her cheekbone in and tearing off her lower jaw from one side of her face. “Hold on, lad! I’m rusty!” Diarmid yelled out as Marcel rushed after the Altmer and disappeared into the hallway. Mere steps before the door, he swiftly bumped into a tall Dunmer dressed like a gaudy caricature of a nobleman. They seemed both equally perplexed and fatigued. “Out of my way, you corpse-faced mongrel!” The old Breton yelled out as he kicked the ash-skinned fellow away and rushed into the hallway, only to find his pupil on the ground next to an unconscious guard, whose dress sword had seemingly slashed Marcel’s face in two. His left eye had popped out of its spot, and skin on the left side of his face hung down his skull. As he heaved, skin near the wound fluttered like cloth in windy weather, along with his left eye’s lids. “My boy! My boy!” “I’ll… I’ll be fine, sir,” a bloodied Marcel replied as he attempted to stuff his eye back in its spot. “Just the meat.” “You damned fool… Hold on, at least let me piece it back together,” the old Breton said in half chastisement, as he held Marcel down by one shoulder and held another hand firm against his face. Arcane skills did not falter with age like physical skills did, and the old man had always capitalized on substituting for his weakening musculature with Restoration; even when dealing with someone as magically resistant as Marcel, he was able to at least place his eye back in its socket properly, and mend the skin just enough for it to stop flapping around with further movement. While he wasn’t sure if he could fix the nerve damage on his own, this would have to do for now. “Right… You should rest a while, get your-” Diarmid said as he tried to pull his old pupil to a safer position, but was interrupted by yet someone else bumping into him. This time, an Argonian, almost dronelike in his uneven pace. While the old hunter propped his arm back just in case this stray was also frenzied, it seemed that he was fixed on something else, and passed by them quickly. “Damned vampires all over, mass frenzy… I didn’t retire for this, Marcel, you know?” The old man confided in a moment of respite. “You know?” “…We can’t stop now. Too much is at stake,” Marcel muttered sheepishly as he propped himself up and grabbed the sword which had chopped his head in twain. Diarmid would’ve stopped him but found himself far too exasperated by his pupil’s monotone resolve in his own moment of weakness. Not willing to be one-upped by his subordinate, he lifted himself up from his rest and followed his pupil’s stead. By the time he caught up with Marcel in the Duchess’ Quarters, the Argonian that had passed by them just recently remained only as a severed arm and a head, the Altmer they were chasing was nowhere to be found, and his own pupil was slammed into a wall as a bleeding mess bearing a plethora of claw wounds. “You damned [b]scum![/b]” While entering the premise with an axe kick strong enough to crack the floor was impressive for a man of his age, the fact that it was dodged made it somewhat unnecessary. Dodging the counterattack made by the wounded beast, he deftly threw himself towards the midst of the room, now facing the Vampire Lord properly. “Oh, my boy… Why?” The old Breton seemed more tiresome and bothered than sad on first glance, as if he were annoyed that things had come to this point, yet a glint of wetness in his eyes as he averted his gaze from the half-dead witch hunter down betrayed otherwise. Master Goupeville composed himself, trying to stay concentrated on the bloodied monster standing before him, and shake off the thought that he wouldn’t amount to much without weapon, magick, and most important of all, blessed youth. Perhaps the outcome did not matter. His latest pupil was dying before his very eyes, before him was a dreaded Vampire, which, had he been in his glory days, would have been somewhat of a disappointment for a cause of death, but now seemed to him a fairly respectable way to go. Diarmid Gilfryd-Goupeville, a Hunter of High Rock, now faced the infamous Vampire Lord Nyrehtaud, unarmed, and at seventy years of age. Lesser men would just have not bothered and died on the spot. But lesser men would’ve never earned the title of Old Hunter. Diarmid knew he’d die and come back before giving up on that title, and so he would. Rushing forward, Diarmid landed a commendable punch on Nyrehtaud’s face, though obviously, a commendable punch was not enough to exactly faze a Vampire Lord of this station. The beastly Vampire smashed his forearm into the old Breton’s chest, sending him flying upwards and smashing him against one of the chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. Candles fell and its chains clanked, but it stood firm, and the Old Hunter fell down on the ground… on his hands and feet. Pushing himself up, Diarmid began coughing out blood, although the cough quickly turned into a cackle. As an annoyed Nyrehtaud rushed forward, he threw himself to the side, raising his leg just enough for the tip of his boot to smash into the Vampire’s mouth. From the sound, he was sure he’d broken one of the Vampire’s teeth, although he was also certain that some of his own ribs were suffering from the same fate. The fight was over, no doubt. “I expected better! Are you a recent convert?” the old man asked, his taunt weakened by the barely concealed pain in his voice. The Vampire Lord, despite the significant wounding he had received from the recently deceased Argonian, lifted the old Breton up from his collar with zero effort, and held him up to see the insolent fool’s face. Yet, despite a triumphant and regal demeanor, the single glinting fang in his mouth signified to that the hunter’s kick had indeed found its mark. For all his intents and purposes, Diarmid was doing better than he’d expected. “I am Nyrehtaud! And you now peri-“ [color=ed1c24][b]POCK[/b][/color] The beast let out a window-shattering screech that nearly burst Diarmid’s eardrums, but the old man was content in the fact that he had managed to give the beast the finger one last time – quite literally, considering how the Vampire Lord’s right eye was now stuck to his left index finger. He burst out more bloody cackling as the beast first dropped him in painful trashing. A moment later, he nearly burst into a bloody pulp when the pained beast’s fist came down on his head and nearly shattered his skull open, then tore into his chest with vicious abandon, puncturing one of his lungs, and threw him away dismissively across the library like a bloodied rag. Flying across the library, Diarmid only came to a halt when he smashed into a bookshelf. The impact was strong enough to crack the sturdy oak frame, but the shelf managed to soak the hit better than the old man did; he fell as a mangled, bleeding slump right in front of it. One book on the shelf, crimson even without the Breton’s blood splattered on it, fell down to his side a moment later. Immortal Blood.