Riddle
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Yoshiki Tanaka, KKS, White Wolf Game Studio and others, apart from any original ones.
More Arslan Senki/Vampire crossover.
Narsus watches the corpse as it falls from his arms. He has killed again. The fact doesn’t worry him overtly, though it troubles him that he is sure there is a reason that it should. He can’t remember. He can’t even remember why he chose that particular victim. Why he decided to kill this night. Why he even bothered to venture so far from a safe-haven this close to morning.
The side-road where he stands isn’t secluded particularly, early morning commuters will doubtless find the lifeless husk he leaves behind but right now there is no one to notice that a lost office worker has failed to find his way home.
There is noise from the top of the street, echoing down the slope towards the river and Narsus ponders fleeing before he can be caught. But he doesn’t and still he doesn’t know why.
The unfortunate stumbling down the street seems to be drunk and by the clothing looks like a student. Narsus waits. Waits for this young man to stumble right up to the corpse, to realise that it is a person, to discover that said person is dead. Waits right up until the moment when the young man starts to panic, before stepping out of the shadows and smiling wide enough that the lamplight catches his fangs just so.
This new victim is given fair chance to scream but fails to do so and only manages to gape soundlessly before he is thrown backwards across the street and impacts against sold wall, sticking there, driven back into the concrete itself, spraying blood and organs in a bizarre halo.
It takes only a fraction of a second for another shadow to launch itself at Narsus’ exposed back but fast as it is, the Toreador is faster. He spins round with a kick that sends the would-be assailant back into the wall behind it, in much the same fashion as the prior unfortunate. But surprisingly this only seems to damage the other, rather than kill it. Which is as good an indication as any, that this is another vampire.
It comes at him again snarling something unintelligible and the hands reaching out become claws. Gangrel? Nosferatu? He can’t be sure yet so he leaps backwards, lengthening razor-sharp nails to slice off one of the assailant’s hands.
It howls in pain; apparently it wasn’t quite expecting him to do that. And he takes the opportunity to put more distance between them, coming to a stop atop a streetlamp a few meters down the slope of the street. Again it comes after him clumsily.
What on earth is it? It has no command of the shadows and rushes blindly into the circle of light cast by the streetlamps so it is no Lasombra. Again it sprouts something unintelligible and its upper body warps slightly, possibly enhancing its strength. No Brujah this then. Ventrue? No, if that were the case he would have heard a challenge by now and most probably would have been given the choice of weapons. Toreador? The thought is laughable, it is distinctly ugly. Tzimisce? Absolutely not, it simply isn’t. He can tell. And probably not the Manus Nigrum. They would have been far more subtle, besides he has no quarrel with the Regent.
It come closer, with more low muttering and suddenly the stone on which he stands is warping, internal steel cables breaking free, reaching out to ensnare him. He leaps from one lamp to another watching it as it shuffles after him. And then he hears it, distinctly as it raises its voice in frustration, calling out words in a language not meant for human ears. Tremere It is nothing to do with him then, this is merely the old grievance being played out.
This time it leaps gaining as much height as he has previously and Narsus laughs as he vaults out of the way, landing on the balcony of a nearby building. Of course it follows and keeps following until he has led it far from street-level and almost to the tops of the corporate buildings that face the river. He stops, poised on a plate-glass spire and it doesn’t hesitate, throwing itself at him. But the blow it aims at him with its remaining hand doesn’t connect and he catches it in mid-air using the force of its own momentum to impale it on one of the glittering spires of the British-American Tobacco building.
It wails and trashes but is caught fast and the sun will soon be rising.
Balancing carefully out of range, Narsus squats down and watches the Tremere’s futile attempts to free itself, contemplates the possibility of remaining till the first of the sun’s rays begin to char it’s skin.
“It was mad to begin with.” A voice behind him.
He turns to see a tall figure, with the bluish skin-tone common to the Kiasyd, watching from a few meters away.
“Your doing?” he questions, slowly standing up.
“They have so very few answers…”
“To your questions or to everything?” A dangerous line of questioning to peruse but he can’t quite stop himself.
“I was curious.”
Narsus doesn’t quite want to ask as to what this Kiasyd was curious about.
“I wanted to see this Toreador scholar with my own eyes.” The Kiasyd laughs softly.
“Alas, you are mistaken.”
“How so?” Its voice is suddenly sharp.
“No scholar I but rather the vainest of courtesans and little else.” Narsus bows slightly.
“Narcissus…”
“Exactly so. Beloved and yet loving none but one’s self.”
“Ah, riddles… Perhaps you might find an answer to mine?”
“I fear not. For I am not quite mad enough to see to the heart of the riddle phantastique.”
That alone gives the Kiasyd reason to pause because there are few who would name their most dangerous power. A riddle so complex and distorted that it overpowers the mind of any who hears it, causing them to do nothing but search for the answer, to the determent of everything else.
“Perhaps… perhaps… There are those who have survived after all.”
Narsus laughs. “Perhaps. Then what is it that causes you to seek me out, Sir Kiasyd?”
“The Tremere are searching.”
“They are always searching but the question is what for?”
“A certain artefact.”
“Indeed.”
“You are far less a Toreador, Lord Narsus.”
A smile. “Tell me, who is it that wishes whatever it is they wish? And we may be done with conversations on rooftops.”
“Silvanost spoke of your… affinity with the shadows.”
“Such a polite way of putting it. Then Silvanost will have what Silvanost will have.”
“An assurance…”
“My lord has no taste for fae blood.”
“It is enough. When?”
“Send your messenger in two days hence. From the time the sun rises till the time it sets and no longer.”
“The artefact?”
“Will be taken from that place after your time runs out.”
“You will not-“
“There is no further negotiation. It is ours and you will not have it.”
The Kiasyd bowes and in the moment it takes for him to straighten up again Narsus was gone.
Lingering to watch the first tendrils of smoke rise up from the pinned Tremere, the Kiasyd ponders the last words of their conversation. It is ours and you will not have it indeed. But the artefact belongs to the Tzimisce and is guarded by the Lasombra. The Toreador have very little to do with the matter, if anything at all. It is an interesting choice of phrase for there are many who think the Devil’s Strategist Tzimisce. And yet, he is fully aware of words so is it in fact an interesting bluff? The Kiasyd frowns slightly, he will make the recommendation to the clan that it would be wise to have as little to do as possible with Lord Narsus. It is merely unfortunate that of the old ones, Silvanost is already far too intrigued by the Toreador. If Toreador he truly be.
Then perhaps he has nothing to fear from the riddle phantastique after all, being an equally intriguing riddle himself. And probably equally impossible to solve.
Because everything happens just off the Strand…
If the British-American Tobacco building doesn’t actually have spires, don’t mind me. I’ve only ever seen it from street level.