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Location: Near city limits • Time: Dusk
Interactions: (NPC) Grace Moretti at The Velvet Bite • Mentions: N/A
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Halcyon's neon lights sparked to life as the sun had fully set beyond the horizon. They glowed beneath the night's overcast sky, encouraging the city's inhabitants to joyfully participate in the nightly services. Indeed, the artificial ionized lamps, twisted into alluring fonts and dazzling shapes, either bestowed warm solitude or offered malicious sweet scents and nectar. For those easily convinced, tonight would be their last night of revelry after passing through the wooden jaws of a sedimentary predator crafted of stone and steel. Only the wise and aware could discern which venues genuinely offered solace.
It had rained a fair bit before the daylight died. While fragmented mists occasionally fell, the many rainwater pools and runoff that slicked the streets cast the man-made radiance skyward. For most city-goers, all they would see were dark cotton tides of migrating rainclouds gleaming in a dim, sickly yellow. For Fae such as Vidar Cederblom, rippling threads of magic, like panes of convex glass, subtly distorted the lingering nimbus. It was the only visual shred of fact that the world, as he and others saw it, was a lie.
An insidious lie.
A beautiful lie.
A fatal lie.
Most mortals were unaware of the great Glamour that clouded their minds and perceptions, a powerful enchantment that removed all doubts and caution of their minacious cityscape. They continued their lives in ignorance, unworried and unaware of the threats that hung over them. Those who were keenly aware of Glamour would, often begrudgingly, accept that their lives now belonged in a reservation for the supernatural. It was both a prison and a safe haven. Should an unbelievable feat be possible, for him to step outside Halcyon's barrier would be to subject oneself to the true world's scrutiny and eventual damnation. Yet within Halcyon's confines, a being beyond human comprehension could thrive in relative content.
Halcyon was a safe and pretty lie. But a lie, nevertheless.
A lie that he would have to humor for some time longer.
Vidar glanced at his watch. The digital display read 6:14 p.m. It was nearly time. He leaned slightly against a steel fire escape railing attached to a dark, unoccupied apartment building. The street lamps below him were the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the structure. Ahead, another apartment radiated warmth and life. The building was likely three stories tall, though it stretched across the entire block.
A few people walked past, and even fewer entered or exited the building. Yet Vidar kept his emerald eyes fixed on the apartment's entrance. His watch chimed—it was now 6:15 p.m. Seconds later, a woman adorned with makeup and long, glittery, dark hair emerged from the entrance. She concealed most of her presumably slender frame—and likely an attractive dress, too—beneath a long leather coat. Her high heels clicked against the concrete as she stepped outside.
She glanced both ways on the well-lit street before looking further toward the adjacent street and buildings as if searching for something. Her gaze eventually landed in Vidar's direction, though he remained still and indifferent. Her eyes eventually broke away upon her failing to find anything of note—she didn't see him. Whatever suspicions she had soon faded, and she began walking into the more densely populated cityscape.
The Fae's eyes followed her until she disappeared behind the taller towers leading into the more populated district. That woman was Grace Moretti, and she represented both a project and a gamble that Vidar was taking a chance on. However, Vidar was beginning to have second thoughts about his wager on her. Grace's earlier behavior indicated his arcane influence over her. Forming a contract with Grace had been an uncomfortable exercise in intentional observation and manipulation, something Vidar—even as a Fae—found distasteful. What he inflicted was direct cruelty, slowly grinding out an exploitable vein through non-stop torment. Such actions, he told himself, were beneath him—even monsters have standards. Yet, necessity had its own moral gravity. He was waging a war where anything could happen, and everything was at stake. Some victories required getting his hands dirty. Others required burying them elbow-deep in someone else's ruin.
A month ago, Vidar's leads had dried up, and he was hesitant to start asking around. His intentions were aimed high, and when people aimed high, others quickly noticed. Foolishly letting slip details made part of grander plans would cascade like falling dominoes down the information pipeline, eventually drawing in unwanted attention he would never be able to dissipate. It would unravel those short years of work—it would be lethal to him. Sabotages and silent slayings from time to time were satisfying enough—artful violence for its own sake—but they were ultimately unimpactful. At least not in the way he was intending. Larger heads needed to start rolling. All he needed were names to begin with.
And there was one he had in mind.
The Red Widow—a notorious haunt of high-profile Vampires, would have been an ideal spot to scope out potential targets. Simply being around that place, however, repulsed him. Too many blood-suckers were a given, but his chest had a tendency to tighten. Just knowing the goings-on in that place brought back bad memories. Vidar conceded to aim lower; thus, The Velvet Bite, a less prestigious but still significant establishment, became his low-hanging fruit.
After a week's worth of visits and casual spying, he had his would-be informant, Grace Moretti, a waitress and a Vampire more attached to the synthetic stuff than fresh blood. Of course, getting her to run tonight's errand was an unflattering venture, to say the least. A venture that Vidar would have ironically found pleasure in sowing chaos into the woman's life were it not for the intent behind it. The occasional strange bump in the night, subtle tone changes within a conversation, and the careful reorganization of household items were all cruel necessities. To methodically break down Grace's well-being. He needed to tip her off balance. To make her doubt what was real. To have her confidence splinter like ice under pressure.
He needed her ripe and functional.
And then, one evening at The Velvet Bite, she landed in his palms.
Grace had approached him, bleary-eyed and dragging her composure as if it were an iron ball chained to her ankle. She managed to muster an automatic smile and took his order with mechanical precision. Vidar noted the circles in her eyes and the slight tremble in her hands. She wore his handiwork like a second skin. He could feel a small and sharp shard of remorse twisting around within his gut. But it passed quickly, swallowed by the colder satisfaction of seeing his efforts bear fruit. She was an open door now.
As she scribbled down his drink, Vidar leaned in with casual warmth, shifting the conversation with ease. What began as a simple order soon unraveled into something more personal—one-sided, of course. He spoke with charm, using just the right cadence to disarm and invite trust without asking for it. It was showtime, and Vidar went about his Fae trickery.
"Oh, my dear, you look so worn," he began, "the sleepless hours, the way words stumble and twist when you try to grasp them—it's all so very heavy, isn't it? Your things never quite where you left them, your world always a step out of rhythm. How exhausting."
"But you needn't carry it alone. I can offer you rest—true rest. The sort that silences every restless thought, stills every ripple of doubt. No more worries. No more questions. Only peace. Complete and uninterrupted. I could grant that gift now, if you wish."
Each word Vidar spoke flowed with power and intent. He gave a charming smile as he pressed the offer further, allowing his enchanted words to take hold—weave past Grace's enfeebled perception, "But such courtesies are never without cost. No, I don't seek your purse. Instead, I ask for something finer. A bit of insight. Mere observations. The kind whispered behind gloved hands and drawn curtains. Gossip! I'm particularly interested in your more... refined patrons—those of the sanguine persuasion. Names, habits, favored hours, and hungers. You understand. Harmless details, I assure you."
At last, his hand lifted and opened into a welcoming gesture: "After all, what is a little gossip between acquaintances? You ease your mind—I sate my curiosity: a civil exchange. Shall we proceed?" Grace hesitated, yet her right hand repeatedly clenched and unfastened as though she was struggling to discern his proposal. Vidar retained his friendly composure, only tilting his head slightly, suggesting curious intrigue rather than impatience.
"S-sure," Grace finally said, still wary, judging by her tone, but she was bought in. Her hand slipped into his own, "I don't know how you'll help, but if you say so, then yes, I accept."
"The odd sounds, the stress that binds you, I'll take that all away, now. Poof!" In a quick and exaggerated gesture, his left hand rose and released a small cloud of glowing glitter. The particles flew briefly and glided downward like a shimmering fountain.
Vidar didn't actually need to use Glamour to illustrate his point, but the appeal would gain Grace's trust while his spell surged through their bonded clasps. The sensations a Fae experienced when making a contract were usually the same, though with subtle differences. For Vidar, he could feel an invisible force coiling around his arms, sometimes cold and hard, like a serpent made of chains. Yet a strange intimacy with the contractee would also flourish. An intrusion of familiarity: a perceived sensation of knowing the individual for much longer than feasible within the passing of time itself. Vidar reasoned that it was a kind of cosmic feedback—an impression that resounded the complete formation of the pact between him and Grace as of the immediate moment.
"And just like that, your worries are behind you. No longer will those concerns or intrusive thoughts hound you. Now, you're a bundle of joyful karma!"
The truth was far more crooked than Grace would ever realize.
Vidar hadn’t solved the misfortunes that clung to her like smoke—he had simply ceased to be their source. Still, belief took time. And time, Vidar had learned, was a fickle luxury. So, he made sure his words worked twice as hard.
When he spoke the terms of their deal, he wove them with Fae precision, every syllable laced with layered meaning. What he offered, he meant—and that was the trick. As she accepted his deal, the spell worked swiftly, smoothing the frayed edges of Grace’s mind, dulling the sting of doubt and the weight of despair. It didn't erase her memories, but it dimmed their impact.
Her transformation was almost immediate. The woman, who had been worn and haggard moments ago, now seemed rejuvenated and infused with bright enthusiasm. She smiled—truly smiled—as if she'd just stepped out of a storm and into sunlight, unaware that the storm had only been called off, not conquered.
"You're absolutely right, I do!" Grace exclaimed, a spark of surprise igniting within her as she realized the shift in her perspective, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Vidar watched as her eyes darted about like she was trying to process the incredible change, "I genuinely feel like... I'm free? It's like I could jump out of a plane... without a parachute!"
Maybe a tad too enthusiastic.
"I'm afraid you'll still need one of those, my dear," Vidar said, wanting to keep Grace's newfound perspective on life under control—and not falling out of a plane, literally and metaphorically speaking, "but do you see it now? The blemishes that kept you awake? The anxieties that tangled your thoughts? They're gone—poof!"
He made the gesture again.
"Of course, now that I've scratched your back, I'd like mine scratched too—not now, though, I've got some other errands and thoughts to attend to. So, here's what I'd like you to do..."
Grace understood, or at least believed she did, what Vidar wanted from her. The details of their arrangement were hazy, laced in riddles, and wrapped in half-truths. Still, the gist was clear enough: collect the whispers of the city, the 'gossip' he craved like wine, and deliver them on his timeline. He'd already scheduled their next meeting—two days hence—and given her careful instructions on when and where to listen, whom to watch, and which rumors to pluck from the air like ripe fruit.
Unbeknownst to Grace, Vidar had quietly observed her as she set off on her task.
Vidar’s expression had been unreadable as she left, but within him, unease churned.
Like a harpist plucking a discordant note, he had tugged at the threads of her anxiety, effectively stripping away the aspects that truly mattered. The natural, careful worry and the machinations of fear that drove all living beings—gone. Being carefree wasn't as wonderful as it seemed, and it was only a matter of time before a temptingly reckless idea was acted upon.
There was a real possibility that Grace could be fired for doing or saying something foolish. A misplaced word, an inconceivable claim, or a loud moment of grandeur was all it would take to end her career. And the consequences wouldn’t fall on her alone. What gnawed at him most was the spell. The risk of being traced back through the discovery of his spell was of great concern despite his efforts to keep his name hidden. Of course, there were ways to deflect the blame. The spell could always be blamed on another Fae—and he wouldn't even need to point the finger either. There were plenty of Fae in Halcyon, after all, and like how a mortal could have a natural lookalike, hundreds of similar Fae auras littered the city like phantom fingerprints.
At this point, the die was cast, and he could only wait—and hope Grace didn’t burn everything down before his next move.
Vidar stood against the spectacle of the city, gazing into the bright sprawl for a while until a loud commotion shattered his contemplations. The noise—a chorus of guttural groans and panicked screams echoed upward, prompting him to quickly tilt his head. Trash cans clattered violently into view, rolling and tumbling like dominoes struck by chaos, and at the crescendo, an unfamiliar man in a full tracksuit stumbled onto the scene before him.
The green-eyed Fae was taken aback by the unusual scene unfolding before him as he watched the interloper lose his footing and fall onto the concrete, writhing in pain and fury. For a brief moment, Vidar glanced toward the nearby streets beyond the alley's mouth. The urban travelers outside took no notice of the distressing cries coming from the man in the alley. This collective indifference turned out to be fortunate, for as Vidar got a closer look at the man, who appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, he noted the man's ashen skin—paler than his own. Through his restless squirming, the man's crimson eyes, burning with intensity, emerged beneath a mess of sweat-soaked hair. Then came the scream—raw and jagged, stretching past human limits—and with it, the unmistakable flash of elongated canines.
Vidar’s jaw tightened.
He wasn't just looking at some crazed young man on a high or a drunken stupor. He was looking upon a Vampire Spawn in rampancy.
Witnessing the creature's erratic behavior, however, he knew something was off. He would have surmised that the reborn Vampire should’ve shown some predatory clarity by now—enough hunger, at least, to lash out at the nearest warm body. He concluded that perhaps the individual—the human beneath the monster—was still fighting for control, keeping himself at bay. Or possibly, Vidar considered, tilting his head, hallucinogens were out of work. Some Fae trickery-induced brews of sorts were known to get out of hand sometimes. Whatever unfortunate circumstances that had transpired were ultimately irrelevant. The young Vampire was a threat not only to Vidar but also to the unaware city-goers beyond the alley.
With a deep sigh, Vidar slipped his right hand beneath the fabric of his coat. His fingers glided through the seams and undid an inner pocket. From within the leather compartment was a thin and nimble silver dagger, elegantly threading through the spaces of his fingers as he drew into weak ambient light.
He had no intention of getting close to the Spawn and resolved to end things upon the scaffolding of the fire escape. Vidar looked at the Spawn's face and felt a pang of remorse for what he was about to do. The young man hadn't asked for this fate. Turned too quickly, left to rot in the gutter of his rebirth—no guidance, no containment, no care. He was a living tragedy manufactured by negligence. They may not have deserved what was to come next, but Vidar saw this moment as extending a courtesy of mercy.
“Honestly,” he hissed, “Vampires have gotten too sloppy these days. No grace. No discipline.” After this, he told himself he’d need a drink. Something dark. Something slow.
The dagger spun once, twice in his palm, a blur of gleaming metal until he caught it by the pommel, balancing the handle delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Then his eyes flared, pulsing with neon light and arcane energy. Translucent vapors, like dancing wisps, flowed and coiled up his arm and swirled around the silver weapon, becoming a miniature monsoon of magic. Vidar's focus narrowed and sharpened—his aim primed to the Spawn's heart. The moment the Spawn twisted and exposed their chest, Vidar threw the dagger in a quick and subtle motion.
It flew true.
