Chapter 12: Shades of Treachery

“Every Vampire Bloodline arises from an act of betrayal. The Progenitor of each breed of Vampire knowingly and intentionally broke the trust of a loved one in a profoundly horrible manner. An act so terrible the Gods themselves turn their back on the perpetrator. Unfortunately, such twisted acts do not disgust every being in the Beyond. Instead, attracting the attention and, more terribly, the boons of things of blood and night. Creating Vampires, creatures abandoned by the Light, and empowered by the dark.” - Morticai the Unbroken, Knight of the Brilliant Dawn.

Bad dreams and blood loss left Cole drained. He literally rolled out of bed and took nearly half an hour to get washed and dressed. Only making his way down into the Silly Goat proper by ten in the morning. Which by local standards was an obscene time to sleep into, but not that odd for Cole. Spending his life hunting the Undead, with many late nights stalking through cursed Graveyards, had warped Cole’s sleep schedule into a mutant abnormality.

Downstairs in the tavern, Cole found little of note. Wilhelm acknowledged his presence with a plate of something warm and edible. While Barnabas, eternally at his barstool, simply grunted. Cole ate in silence for a little while before asking.

“Where’s Natalie?” he hadn’t seen her and saw no evidence of her presence.

Wilhelm nodded his head towards the door and answered. “She’s running some errands. She also told me to give you this when you crawled out of bed.” Wilhelm grabbed a piece of paper and handed it to Cole.

The paper held a collection of notes and crude maps that Natalie had found time to write up. These provided directions to the ruins Natalie had described and contained all the details she’d heard about the ruins. Looking over the sheet, Cole felt a smile come to him. Yet again, she’d surprised and impressed him. It was a feeling Cole could get used to. A pang of guilt found the opportunity to hit Cole then. His dreams had reinforced many of his worries in this regard. Isabelle still clung to undeath somehow, and Cole could not and would not betray that love.

Wincing and shaking away those uncomfortable thoughts. Cole pocketed the paper and looked up to Wilhelm, and debated saying something about his intentions with Natalie. But no words came, and Cole switched focus.

“Thank you for the meal. I’m going to visit the Temple and leave soon. If I don’t see Natalie, thank her for me.”

Wilhelm’s brow raised as he asked, “She’s not going with you today? I expected her to follow after you, Rest-Bringer. Did you manage to convince her not to join you on your hunt?” Wilhelms's words had an almost pleading note to them. The sound of a worried parent hoping the danger might have passed.

Wincing internally, Cole answered honestly. “I agreed to let her accompany me only if I could confidently say I could keep her safe. She’s still insistent on joining me on my mission, but not on this particular excursion. What I think haunts that ruin is not something I’d risk exposing Natalie too.”

Wilhelm wilted slightly but pondered his words. Barnabas snorted in derision and asked. “You thought she’d be safe when you fought that jagging bone pile? What in the Sacred Gates made you think that?”

Scratching the back of his head in mild embarrassment, Cole explained. “The Charnel was ultimately unintelligent. I could take precautions with it that a more aware form of Undead might ignore. Ghouls and Rattlers are ultimately driven by instincts and magical impulses. Undead that can be subverted with forethought and arcane protections. What I think is haunting that ruin, a Wraith, is much more unpredictable.”

Wilhelm and Barnabas both shivered at that. Getting up to leave, Cole tried to find comforting words, but none came. Even with food and water in him, Cole’s mind felt fuzzy. He’d yet to recover from his ordeal last night, and the mental impact of his experiences over the past few days hadn’t yet sunk in. While capable of incredible acts of endurance and survival. Cole was not immune to the sheer drain that pain and stress could put on a person. Trying to ignore this, Cole left the Silly Goat and set about his next task.

Trude had promised him a cloak, and Cole didn’t know if it would be completed by now. He wanted to check before leaving for the ruin. Even in his slightly bewildered state, Cole could tell something had changed in Glockmire. While people still avoided him, the looks he got were marginally less hostile, and one or two passersby even waived to him. Those were patrons of the inn who’d listened to him the night previously. Uncertain but not wanting to offend, Cole waved back and continued on his way. It didn’t take him long to arrive at his destination. He’d made this trek to the temple enough times to have the route memorized.

Cole took a moment at the Temple’s entrance to admire the images carved into the large door. The complicated pattern of sacred sigils, ancient runes, and pictograms of important events managed to be artistic while also serving as a powerful reminder of the Temple's nature. This was where faith and community had forged a bastion against the darkness. Where miracles could be commonplace, and the Pantheon’s touch could be felt. Putting his hand upon the aged but sturdy door, Cole entered the Temple and sought out the Loom-Matron.

It was not Godsday nor a sacred time of the year, so the Temple’s sanctuary was uninhabited. Cole passed through the empty cloister and towards the workshop he’d last seen Trude in. Even if she wasn’t present, it was a good place to start looking.

As he moved through the dimly lit halls of the Temple, Cole felt mildly surprised at his own actions. Normally he’d have simply waited in the sanctuary for someone to guide him to Trude. Instead, he’d been more proactive and even rather rude. By simply inviting himself into the Temple’s backrooms and hunting after one of its high-ranking Priests. While from a purely theological standpoint; As a Paladin and direct agent of Master Time, Cole out-ranked every Priest and Acolyte in the temple combined. Yet it still felt improper to not show due respect to the local religious institution. Still, Cole didn’t turn back, he had work to do, and perhaps some of Natalie’s bullheadedness was rubbing off on him.

Cole found Trude where he expected to. The door to the workshop was open, and Cole could hear the woman's voice echoing through the hallways.

“You are making progress. The fabric here needs to be tighter, but your efforts are acceptable so far.”

A second higher-pitched and nervous voice answered. “Yes, matron. Thank you for your advice!”

It seemed Trude had a student. Cole knocked on the door, hoping he wasn’t interrupting a crucial lesson.

“Enter,” came Trude’s firm voice, and Cole obliged. He found the Priestess sitting next to a small quilt being worked on by a skinny girl. A teenage acolyte or apprentice tradeswoman, perhaps? Priests of Uncle Maker were tasked with teaching crafts to all who desired to learn. The student looked away from her quilt to see Cole, and she nearly fell out of her seat in fright. Cole winced slightly, but Trude simply clucked her tongue in annoyance. Getting up from where she’d sat, the Loom-Matron grabbed a large bundle of cloth from a nearby table and handed it to Cole.

“My gift to you, Rest-Bringer. I hope it helps.” Cole let the fabric unfold into a large cloak and cowl. The billowing black garment was similar to his old burned-up one, but the fabric seemed softer and sturdier. Cole started to thank Trude for the gift but was cut off when she rammed a pair of scissors through the cloak. The sharp blades stopped just a handspan from Cole’s chest. Dropping the cloak, Cole lept back, reaching for his weapon. Cursing himself, he realized he’d left the thing back at the Silly Goat. Not thinking he’d need a bloody Halberd to run an errand.

To his surprise, Trude didn’t continue her “attack” and instead kneeled on the ground. Straightening out the cloak where Cole dropped it. Once the cloak was set out, Trude grabbed a strip of cloth and pressed it onto the spot she’d torn. To Coles's amazement, the new piece of fabric seemed to “melt” into the cloak. Individual threads attached to their sheared counterparts. The fabric itself seemed to loosen and reform with the cut patched over. The new material merged with the old, repairing the cloak with barely any sign that it had been patched.

Trude stood up and brandished the cloak at Cole, and spoke. “I rarely use this enchantment but found it suitable for you Rest-Bringer. You can feed this cloak scraps of cloth, and it will repair itself. Try to get the same color of material to repair it if you don’t want the thing ending up looking silly.”

She handed the cloak to Cole, and he put it on, letting its dark folds wrap his shoulders and body. It fit perfectly, to Cole’s surprise. Trude's measurements were apparently more than enough to fit the garment. Nodding in appreciation, Cole spoke, “This is incredible, Loom-Matron. Thank you for such a gift!”

Trude grimaced as she responded. “Thread-Mages like myself call the enchantment ‘Strix Cloth,’ and it's not without disadvantages. The magic woven into it needs to be fed with extensive use. And the accursed thing is fickle, preferring blood over any more palatable type of magical fuel. Normally that’s a deal-breaker for the type who likes enchanted clothes, but I thought you’d find it… acceptable.”

A mixture of worry, disgust, and confusion warred for dominance inside Cole. Trude had given him a vampiric cloak to aid him in hunting the Undead. Did she know about his skill with Blood Magic? Or was this some attempt at morbid humor? Cole didn’t know what to make of this turn of events and defaulted to polite stiffness. “Thank you, Loom-Matron. You are correct; this will serve my purposes.”

Trude nodded and either didn’t perceive or acknowledge Cole’s moment of concern. Instead, continuing to explain her creation. “As long as a quarter of the original material is intact, it should be able to repair itself. The Cloak will use any fabric it can, so if you are sloppy in feeding it, the cloak will become a patchwork monstrosity.”

Cole took a moment to further examine and feel the Cloak while Trude watched him. After finding no faults or issues, Trude spoke again. “ Now, with that settled, I feel I’ve done my part. Go follow your purpose and try not to die.”

Having been excused from her presence in a typically terse manner, Cole turned to leave Trude. The stern Priestess gave him some choice parting words as he reached the door. “Oh and Rest-Bringer, remember what I said about Natalie.”

Smiling softly, Cole chuckled. “I will keep your words in mind, Priestess, but you need not worry today. She isn’t accompanying me on this part of my quest.”

Cole left the workshop and the Temple that contained it. Not pausing to visit the altars, he’d have time for that later. The ultimate way to serve his God was not through prayer but through actions. He had a duty, and he would see it fulfilled. Despite its grim nature, the cloak fit Cole well, and he found its presence comforting. He’d traveled far and wide with little more than a good cloak to protect him from the elements. So having that small bit of luxury was something Cole was truly thankful to have back.

Arriving at the Silly Goat, Cole gathered his pack and equipment from his room. Wilhelm was alone in the tavern, polishing a glass absently. He barely acknowledged Cole’s arrival but called out to the scarred man before he could leave the inn again.

“Cole, do you have a moment?”

Slightly surprised by this, Cole moved over to speak with the Innkeeper. So far, Wilhelm had avoided him ever since Natalie had gotten involved with his duties. Something Cole didn’t blame the middle-aged man for. Despite everything Cole had done and would do to mitigate the risks. Natalie was involved in something soul-threatening in its potential danger.

Setting down the old glass he’d kept polishing even after it was spotless, Wilhelm mustered his courage and spoke. “I haven’t been a good host nor a good man the last day or two. From what I can see, Cole, you are someone who's lived a hard life and still tries his best to do good. That's rare and worth more than most people think.”

Those were not the words Cole had expected. Momentarily stunned, a feeling he was facing much these days. Cole responded.

“I’m honored by your words Master Wilhelm, but they are not needed. Your feelings and actions make perfect sense, and I’ve taken no offense.”

Wilhelm sighed, rested his weight against the bar, and said, "And that's part of the problem.”

Cocking an eyebrow in surprise, Cole asked, “excuse me?”

Folding his finger and resting his head on them, Wilhelm answered. “If you were a good-for-nothing bastard playing with my Daughters' heart, I’d feel no guilt for despising you.”

“From what I’ve seen and heard, you seem a righteous person trying to help. But part of me can’t help but loathe you for stirring up what’s almost certain to be a storm and then bringing my daughter into it.” continued Wilhelm, a mixture of guilt and bitterness touching his voice.

Slowly Cole picked his words. “I’m sorry, Wilhelm. It makes sense that you feel as you do. I wish I did not endanger you or Natalie with my presence.”

That got an annoyed grunt from Wilhelm. It seemed Cole’s words just fed into the man’s angst. They stood there in silence for a moment, Wilhelms confession souring the air. Cole debated just leaving the inn, not wanting to worsen the situation. For a brief moment, he also considered letting Wilhelm know more about Cole’s purpose in Glockmire. Explaining his identity as a Paladin and the threat brewing in the town. That possibility was quickly rejected. Cole was already gambling much with letting this town think he was a Rest-Bringer. Letting the knowledge that he was a Paladin spread farther than it had could be disastrous. The Vampires might ignore a Rest-Bringer who didn’t challenge them. A Paladin would be a different story.

“You can loathe me all you wish if it helps you. I will not object.” was all Cole could say to Wilhelm. Leaving the Inn, Cole felt guilty, but not as much as he probably should. He’d let himself get tangled with Natalie, and while that had proven a surprising boon. Gambling with other people's lives was not something Cole would do lightly, even if it might stop them from hating him.

The trip to the ruins was uneventful. Using the map and directions Natalie had provided, Cole navigated to his goal with relative ease. His path took him deeper into the forest he’d fought the Vryko-Ghouls in. Veering away from the worn cliff-face where those Undead had been born and into the forest proper. After entering the dense greenery of these woods, Cole relied less on Natalie’s directions and more on the gentle tug within his chest. That familiar cold pull had turned away from Castle Glockmire and instead pushed Cole deeper into the forest. Providing all the confirmation he needed that Undead haunted these woods.

The ‘God-Touch,’ as other Paladins called that strange feeling, would always pull Cole to where he was needed. A fickle thing that was practically useless for true navigation but perfect for confirming what he’d suspected. It didn’t take much longer for Cole to notice other signs that something was wrong. Most acute was the vague but ever-present feeling of being watched. There was an instinctual itch on the back of Coles's neck, screaming that something dangerous had him in his sights. That feeling kept all but the bravest and stupidest from getting close to Cole’s destination.

Between the trees, Cole spotted what he’d been looking for in the distance. Age-worn stonework sticking from the forest floor. Remnants of a building’s walls after centuries of neglect. Reaching the worn-down walls, Cole easily stepped over the now knee-high structure and entered the ruin proper. What was left of a foundation stretched out for maybe ten meters before him. It’s old stone already falling prey to vines, moss, and the elements. The ruined wall surrounded perhaps half the structure, with missing parts marking entrances or where the weather had taken its toll.

Looking around, Cole guessed this ruin was a remnant from the Old Empire near its end, probably destroyed in the madness of the Bloody Centuries. While he lacked any proper training in history and archelogy. Cole had spent enough time around tombs and ruins to pick up a few things. As he continued his examination, Cole's sense of being watched never abated. Something was here, and he would need to draw it out and destroy it.

Moving towards the center of the ruin, Cole’s foot brushed against something. He realized what he’d taken to be mottled moss and stone was, in fact, a large tarpaulin. Covered in stray leaves and dirt, the canvas sheet covered something in the center of the ruin. Grabbing it, Cole tugged the tarpaulin and located the four pitons anchoring it to the stone. Cutting the canvas free, Cole pulled the tarp off the stone and found what he’d been expecting. A faded but still discernible symbol had been painted onto the ruin’s floor.

Roughly circular in shape, the symbol was a strange flowing thing roughly two meters in diameter. Its pattern looked like curling serpents woven together in a strange overlapping appearance. Smaller, more intricate glyphs marked wherever the “serpents” overlapped. Time had faded and smeared those more detailed symbols. Each thick line of the symbol was traced with charcoal and then filled with a brown-looking pigment. Cole recognized the pigment as the residue of long dried blood. Something he’d long learned to identify.

While the symbol itself was not one Cole recognized, the location, use of blood, and its style told him all he needed to know. This was a ritual site. A place where someone had relatively recently practiced Necromancy. By the shape of the symbol, Cole guessed this was indeed a binding rite. Something meant to attract the attention of an existing Undead and then force its subservience. While he’d expected a rite of reanimation, this was still a promising lead.

Setting down his pack, Cole fished out a piece of paper and pencil he’d bought from a merchant in Glockmire. While no artist, Cole could still copy the symbol with some accuracy. Except he intentionally left the circular edge of the ritual symbol unfinished. While Cole doubted his crude recreation would have any of the original's arcane power, but tempting fate when it came to Black Magic was never a good idea.

With his sketch back in his pack, Cole gathered up what he’d need for what was to come. A few sticks of incense, some salt, and a bell. An odd collection of items, but one’s that would be crucial in luring and dispatching a Wraith. Lengthening his halberd to short spear proportions, Cole got to work. It was still the middle of the day, and the Sun cast short shadows on the ruins. That made things both harder and easier. No type of Undead enjoys the Sun. This is especially true of Wraiths. Lacking a body of any kind, spectral Undead fared poorly in Sunlight. So if Cole could lure it out, then dealing with the Wraith would be easier, but getting it to face him in the first place would be difficult.

Natalie’s information about this ruin had few hints as to what exactly was inhabiting it, but Cole was reasonably certain it was a Wraith of some kind. A vague but ever-present feeling of being watched, accompanied by an instinctual sense of dread, were some of the most basic signs of a Wraith. The mind, body, and soul of a living being react instinctually to something that should not be. A soul without a body.

Unlike Ghouls and Rattlers with clear origins in unconsecrated corpses and magic-tainted bones, Wraiths lack a unified origin. While, by definition, they are souls that refuse to pass on and instead haunt the world, the reason for why they would not pass on varies. Sometimes a person chooses to not enter Master Time’s halls out of a skewed sense of responsibility to the living. Other times a soul refused to pass on more commonly out of fear of inevitable judgment. No matter the reason why they took that path; existing without flesh quickly wore down any sanity the person originally had. Creating a distorted parody of the original person with frightening abilities.

Cole intended to force this almost certainly insane and most likely dangerous Undead into a direct confrontation. By disturbing it through several tried and true methods, forcing it to attack him. First, Cole wandered around the ruin, scattering salt where he went and checking for any bones that might still be nearby. While he doubted nature nor the Feeder would let any remains lie still, Cole still wanted to check. Having access to the body of a Wraith (or part of it at least) would give Cole other options. His search proved fruitless as Cole scattered salt across the stone floor. Keeping a handful of the crystalline dust for himself, Cole returned to his pack and started the next step in angering the Wraith.

Setting out the incense, Cole lit the four sticks and let the pungent aroma wash over the ruin. The type he’d purchased was usually only used in religious ceremonies. The overwhelming smell and the surprising amount of smoke produced made the incense good for little else. Soon clouds of thin smoke filled the ruin, and Cole knew he was nearly done. The faint pressure the Wraith had been exerting on his mind had bloomed into something massive. No longer was it a vague sense of being watched but now a visceral feeling of murderous hatred. Cole expected and hoped for this reaction.

Picking up the bell, Cole started to ring it softly and pray. A slow funeral cant he’d learned years ago. This, combined with the salt and incense, would begin the processes of consecrating this ruin. Changing its reflection in the Aether into something the Gods had dominion over. While he could do a “quick and dirty” version of this through blood magic and his divine boons, his goal was not truly to consecrate these broken stones. All Cole wished to do was force the Wraith to act. Which it most certainly would. Cole was doing the equivalent of entering a Bears den and dumping a mix of lye and shit right in front of the beast. Worse than a territorial challenge or insult, this was a direct attack on the Wraith and its “home.”

Before Cole could start the prayer’s second verse, he felt the temperature around him drop rapidly. Frozen breaths joined the incense in the now chilled air. Cole dropped the bell with an ugly clank and held out his halberd. Slowly rotating, Cole kept his senses peeled for his enemy. That proved to be unnecessary as a gods-awful shriek cut through the air. It came from every direction and no direction. Filling the ruin with a near-deafing wail. Sounding like a mixture of tearing metal and a child being tortured, Cole could feel it in his teeth.

Shaking his head, Cole responded with his own challenge, “MAGNI MORTAE MUNDUS!”

His bellowed words echoed on the stone, and the shriek faded. Movement caught Coles's attention, and he barely turned to see a figure standing in the smoke. Perhaps only two meters away was a dark gap in the incense. An absence unfilled by curling smoke, forming the rough image of a person. It was little more than arms, legs, a torso, and a head without detail. Just a faint dark patch of air marked chiefly by where the smoke touched it. Seeing it, Cole spoke again.

“I am a Servant of Master Time. Sent here to lay you to rest, Spirit. I do not know what suffering has driven you to this state, but I am here to end it. The judgment of his Halls will be fair, and I ask you to submit to it willingly.”

The Wraith didn’t move or respond in any way. So Cole continued this time in a more gentle tone. “It is normal to fear what comes next. But surely it must hurt to exist as you do? Let me help you move on.”

Cole barely finished speaking when the Wraith charged him if such a word was applicable. It flowed forward in a strange supernatural manner. Not moving its limbs; instead, it simply pushed through the smoke with terrible quickness. It was upon Cole in a moment, and only then did it move its limbs. Shadowy arms shot out and touched Cole, spreading a bitter, bitter chill. Phantom fingers touched Cole’s chest and left burning cold where they went. Despite what it felt like, frostbite was not ripping into Cole. This was an attack on his spirit, not his body. The Wraith was reaching into his being and trying to rip his soul from him.

This was why Cole hadn’t let Natalie accompany him. Wraiths rarely attacked in mundane ways. Instead, striking the mind and soul of their victim. Cole hadn’t known exactly what this Wraith would do, but he’d not wanted to risk Natalie’s sanity in facing it. The cold of the grave accompanied by the wails of a tortured spirit would be enough to put most people into shock. Letting their guard drop and letting the Wraith rip their very soul apart. Leaving a Corpse that showed no apparent cause of death other than the fear on its face.

Whatever was left of this, Wraith's mind probably expected this to happen. The pain and fright giving it an opening into Cole’s being. So when Cole swung his halberd into the Wraiths side, it exploded backward in a confused shriek. Pearlescent fluid splattered onto the stone before quickly evaporating into thick fog. Cole had slashed the Wraith and torn open its side, where now Ectoplasm leaked out.

Not letting the Wraith recover, Cole lunged forward with his Halberd cutting through one of the restless Spirits' arms. The severed arm dissipated into a white fog, and the Wraith let out another screech, this one of pain. Frantically the Wraith charged Cole again, its remaining arm outstretched and warping into a shadowy claw. With contemptuous ease, Cole batted the limb away with his Halberd and went for the rekilling blow. Cole drove the Halberd into the Wraiths torso and ripped up. Letting the Wraith fall apart into a bloom of ectoplasm.

Cole bowed his head and spoke. “May you find peace in the next life.”

One of the most dangerous facets of dealing with Wraiths is their incorporeal nature. As souls congealed into something rotten, they are not bound by most natural laws. Existing predominantly in the Aether, only partially entering the material world in an envelope of Ectoplasm. Capable of phasing through walls and unbothered by steel weapons, destroying a Wraith requires magical intervention. A fact Master Time, as the God of Death, had accounted for when investing a bit of his power into a Paladin. Just as Cole could look into the eyes of a corpse and see flickers of their last moments, his duty had also given him the power to touch Wraiths as if they were made of normal matter.

In the bright sunlight and under the withering assault of Cole’s halberd, the Wraith had been destroyed. Its vessel of ectoplasm burst, and its essence damaged the Wraith dissipated into the Beyond where it might face Master Time. While he didn’t know for certain, Cole guessed the Wraith was a Shade. The result of a soul stuck in the material plane for a very long time without any sort of anchor. Its mind deteriorated to the point nothing of the person remained. Leaving a putrified soul in extreme pain and unable to comprehend the world around it. Bitterly Cole thought that even if that soul was consigned to the Infinite Hells, that might be more merciful than whatever unlife it had existed in.

Philosophy and Theology could wait, however. The sense of being watched had not dissipated with the Shade's destruction. Slowly turning in a circle Cole restarted his scan of the ruin around him. In the smoke, he spotted perhaps a dozen more Shades floating at the edges of the ruin. Cole had feared and expected this. A single Shade was not worth the effort to bind, but a group of them? That would be something the Feeder might be interested in. Looking at the voids in the smoke where indistinct shadows floated, Cole repeated his plea.

“Please, let me release you peacefully. Damaging your Ectoplasm could damage your very soul. Allow me to help you in a way that won’t hurt.”

This was part of what made fighting Wraiths so unpleasant. A soul shredded in the manner Cole’d been forced to do earlier might not reconstitute correctly in the Beyond. Bits of the spirit could be lost to the Beyond’s infinite expanse. That is, if it didn’t just dissipate away into nothingness entirely.

The Shades didn’t respond, just staring at Cole with those murky false faces. Raising his halberd up in a guard stance, Cole grit his teeth in frustration. He hoped he could reach whatever scraps of sapience might hide in the Shades, but he knew it was unlikely. They were each a morass of jumbled memories, instincts, and feelings. Who saw him or any other soul-bearing creature as something to attack and destroy.

Confirming Cole’s fears, the Shades erupted forward. A dozen different shadowy forms stretched in inhuman proportions as they attacked. Arms and hands lengthening into talons. Legs faded into a wispy afterthought while shadow-covered faces contorted in a scream. The horrible shriek from before accompanied the attack. This time multiplied in intensity to mind-shattering volumes. Predominantly a spiritual effect, the Scream was not composed of sound pulled from tortured throats. Instead, it was a grating attack on the very soul. The Shades influence on the surrounding Aether experienced by Cole’s soul.

Experience, his unusual nature, and Master Time’s boons had inured Cole to such attacks. Swinging his halberd in a great arc, Cole struck one Shade right through the head and another in the torso. Even as they faded into unchained ectoplasm, they reached out for Cole. Hints of their grave-cold touching him. This was something else Cole paid no mind to. He served the God of Death, Time, and Entropy. The chill of death was something he knew well.

With the first two dissipated, Cole leaped towards another. Ramming the spear-tip of his weapon through its body and ripping the halberd to his right. The impaled and fading Wraith smashed into one of its kin that Cole now cleaved into. Both melted into clouds of Ectoplasm, and Cole tried not to wince in annoyance. He didn’t think mixing two Shades as they were destroyed would be good for their souls. While he may be fighting for his life, he still needed to remember his duties and not let turn this melee into something worse than it had to be.

With the original one destroyed and four more fallen to his blade, only eight Shades remained for Cole to face. They’d been buffeted back by his attack. Circling him with that strange unnatural movement of most Wraiths. While they had a numerical advantage, Cole’s aggression and resistance to their attacks kept them at bay. Cole wouldn’t let them regroup, tortured broken souls as these were. They were still dangerous, capable of surrounding him and tearing his soul apart. Something Cole was not sure even he could survive.

Charging forward, Cole tried to strike one of the closer Shades. It flitted backward, leaving a trail of empty air in the smoke-filled ruin. Another Shade tried to take advantage and lept towards Cole’s back. Whirling around, Cole shot out his free right hand and tried something stupid. Cole gripped the Shade with his bare hand, something impossible to a mundane warrior. This proved to be a mistake. The Shade was a soul, the essence of a person, stretched out of the Aether and into a facet of reality never meant to hold it. Bitterly cold to the touch, it felt like Cole had thrust his hand into glacial water. But that supernatural chill was the least of it, flickers of memories pulsed against Cole’s mind.

* The deep ache of overtaxed muscles accompanied by the ugly pang of hunger*

* The bitter sting of a slaver’s lash and the scream of pain that accompanied it.*

* Lungs burning with exertion as animal panic filled an innocent mind *

* A group of youths hiding in an abandoned Imperial villa*

* Choking smoke and burning fire as thirteen people tried to break open a sealed door *

Smashing the Shade’s head, Cole let it dissipate as he stepped away and tried not to vomit. The jumbled memories told a story, one he could decipher later. For now, he needed to end this. Seven Shades remained, and every second they existed was another second they’d been failed.

The sixth fell to a cut from its shoulder to hip. The fifth broke apart when the flat of the halberd slammed into it. Numbers four and three were cleaved in a single blow. While the second Wraith was run through. Leaving a single thrashing Shade attempting to grip onto Cole. He didn’t let it get close, moving back slightly to whisper a few words. “I’m so sorry lost Soul. Let this pain end, and may your next life be something beautiful.”

Cole struck the Shade cleanly and let it dissipate into nothingness. Leaving Cole alone in the ruin. After a few minutes of silence, Cole moved over to the ritual symbol painted on the stone. Lifting up his halberd Cole struck the dried blood and charcoal. Screaming in rage as he did. Cole struck and struck again. Hacking into the old stone with reckless abandon. He did this until nothing of the symbol was recognizable. Cold sweet dripped down Cole’s face and his arms burned from the exertion. The axe-head of his halberd was blunted and chipped as well. Swearing under his breath and annoyed with himself, Cole nicked his arm with a sharp part of the weapon and had it reform into a hand-axe. The transformation fixed the blade but required a fair amount of blood. Partially to power the more complicated spell, partially to provide material for the repair.

Slumping down on his knees, Cole set the axe next to him and gritted his teeth in anger. While he didn’t know for certain and doubted he would ever. It seemed the Feeder had found the Shades of centuries-old escaped slaves and bound them to its will. These souls were the product of terrible tragedy. Little more than children, they’d escaped bondage to only die in a fire. Leaving behind Wraiths so terrified of what came next, they devolved into Shades. Haunting where they died for centuries as their minds devolved. This was a tragedy never to be recorded in any tome of history. Only remembered by the tortured Wraiths who lived it. The Feeder had found this tragedy and saw it as an opportunity to gain a weapon.

That fact made Cole hate the Feeder. Before, he’d loathed this being, who perverted the unquiet dead for some twisted purpose. Now Cole hated this enemy. Perhaps not with the same choler as Natalie did, but he still felt a deep, freezing, cold hatred for whatever being could see this pain and repurpose it to hurt others.

Slowly getting back to his feet, Cole recollected himself. He spent a few minutes praying, combining a Saint-Speech Funeral chant with his pleas that these lost souls find peace. As Cole finished, he felt a familiar chill brush against his soul. A cold that didn’t burn but instead soothed away the pain. With its touch came an impression of a number.

*Seven*

Master Time had answered his prayer with the honesty you’d expect from the God of Death. Seven of the thirteen could be reincarnated. The other six had been too far damaged. Their souls were mutilated, unstable things that even a God couldn’t heal properly. Master Time and his Seraphs would ensure those poor broken souls faded into nothingness peacefully. Something that was little comfort to Cole.

For a moment, he felt a surge of regret and self-loathing. If he’d done this better, maybe more of them- No. He couldn’t go down that path of thought. Reflecting on one’s mistakes could too easily become hating yourself for failing. Cole just needed to do better and save as many souls as he could.

It hadn’t taken much effort for Dietrich to pry something useful out of the Direbats corpses. As Dietrich had ordered, the Hibernaculum Tenders had collected the brood that destroyed itself. Leaving Dietrich with a mess of mutilated bat carcasses. The Scarlet Knight’s initial efforts to learn who’d controlled the Direbats had failed. Whatever binding was put on them had been erased when they died. But that did not end this trail of investigation. Using Necromancy, Dietrich breathed unlife into one of the more intact Direbats. Reanimating the fresh corpse into a twitching unsteady flesh puppet.

True rot had not taken this creature, and that presented an opportunity. Dietrich commanded the Direbat to return to the last place it’d been ordered to. Taking to the air on ragged wings, the Direbat flew off into the night sky. Dietrich assumed his wolf form and followed the Direbat. Despite lacking the advantage of flight Dietrich could keep up with the Direbat. Complicated actions like flight were not easy for Risen corpses. Even an Undead creature whose existence revolved around flight struggled to keep aloft. This was partly why most Courts of Vampires bothered with living minions like Direbats. Sometimes it was easier to subvert a mortal's mind rather than puppeteer its corpse.

Still, it didn’t take long for the Direbat to guide Dietrich to his goal. Lupine speed combined with Vampiric endurance made travel easy. The Direbat had taken him east, deeper into the mountains. Into a dip between two peaks. A craggy stretch of boulders, frost, and stunted grass. The Direbat ended its meandering flight at the bottom of this mountain notch. Flopping itself onto a boulder pressed up against one of the mountain slopes. It lay there waiting for its next command while Dietrich inspected the area.

The first thing apparent was this boulder had been moved relatively recently. Scrapes marked the ground and rockface where the boulder had been dragged away from its present location. As Dietrich got closer, it also became clear the boulder blocked the entrance of some kind. Preventing passage into a natural cave probably created by eons of rainwater flowing down into this gap. Eyeing the edges of the boulder, Dietrich saw numerous small gaps, large enough for a Direbat to slip through easily. One of those gaps caught his attention in particular. Something stuck out of between the rock.

Approaching the boulder, Dietirchs armored boot crunched against a patch of snow, and the thing sticking through the gap twitched. It was a hand, an emaciated and ruined human hand. That reached out with worn fingers towards the sound. Dietrich didn’t even need to breathe in the cloying scent that must have surrounded the cave to know what awaited him. This was a Ghoul someone had locked away. Dietrich had found a “cache” of undead prepared by his unknown adversary.

Unsheathing his oversized sword, Dietrich approached the boulder. He gripped the cold stone with a single gauntleted hand and sunk his fingers into the rock. It cracked under his grip and gave the Vampire a solid grip on the boulder. Undead muscles bulged with black blood, empowered to supernatural heights, as Dietrich ripped the boulder free with ease. He cast the Ogre-sized rock to his left like so much debris and faced whatever lay in the cave.

A surging mass of hungry corpses greeted him. The cave had been filled entirely with an obscene number of Ghouls, who now streamed out like ants stirred from their nest. Dozens of arms reached out towards Dietrich, grasping for his cold flesh with undead hunger.

Alone and away from the castle, Dietrich smiled and made a contented growl in his throat. It had been three years since he’d cut loose. And even then, he’d been weighed down with concerns over managing the town's security. Now he had an enemy before him and no reason to not indulge.

Dietrich met the Ghouls, charging them with his executioner sword held high above him. He swung the brutal weapon down, its sharp edge ripping through a ghoul and sinking an inch into the stone ground. Dietrich then pulled up, sending a shower of pebbles, moving fast enough to draw blood into the Ghouls. Spinning his sword in a great circular arc, Dietrich butchered half a dozen Ghouls with a single cut. The weight and momentum of his blade doing as much damage as its killing edge.

Whatever stunted instincts guided the Ghouls could not react to Dietrichs speed in any meaningful way. He tore through the horde, using his sword, his hands, and his feet to batter and break corpses by the dozen. Ghouls lunged at him, half-rotten arms wrapping around Dietrich. He paid them little mind as perhaps ten different Ghouls tried to latch onto him. The Scarlet Knight swept through the bodies with ease, tearing them apart and leaving a wake of rotten blood and spoiled gore.

Skeletal hands tried vainly to claw at solid plate armor, and rictus-taught jaws failed to puncture the underlying mail. In the face of a Vampire warrior with a century and a half of battle experience, the Ghouls posed no threat. Normally that would stifle Dietrich’s enjoyment. There was no sport to this, only crude slaughter. But after so long of learning the delicate political games of his kindred and feeling blindsided by this new threat. It felt wonderful to simply do what Dietrich had always been meant to do. Destroy and butcher anything and anyone who got in his way.

Soon Dietrich stood alone, surrounded by a lake of ruined bodies. His armor, weapon, and exposed face were covered in congealed blood. It was hard to tell now, but Dietrich estimated at least two hundred Ghouls had been crammed into a fairly small cave. This was demonstrated when Dietrich entered the new empty cavern and found its walls smeared with rotten skin. As they were packed together, the Ghouls had rubbed against the rock walls.

Dietrich was also fairly certain these had been Grinning Ghouls. An unpleasant type of Undead that was far more active than a common Ghoul. Capable of running and attacking with surprising ferocity. Grinning Ghouls were animated Corpses enhanced by thick miasma. The Necromantic pollution in the Aether pushes these Ghouls to be stronger and faster than normal. A Grinning Ghoul could be incredibly lethal to a common peasant or even foot soldier. Unleashing two hundred of them on a civilian population would be cataclysmic, with every victim rising as a new Ghoul empowered by the miasma created by painful deaths. Checking to see if his initial assessment was accurate. Dietrich rolled over a corpse he’d cut and half and looked at the Ghoul's face. Its facial muscles had been pulled taught in a rictus that earned these Undead their name.

Delving deeper into the cave, Dietrich deciphered more of the puzzle. Grinners fell apart quickly. Their dead muscles become overtaxed and are unable to repair themselves. So the “Feeder” had shoved them into what amounted to “cold storage” up here in the mountains. Where the packed confines and cool rock would keep them fresh. The only remaining question is, how did someone manage to lure such a large number of Grinners up here and keep them occupied long enough to seal the cave shut.

Dietrich got his answer when he reached the end of the cave. On the far wall of the dark cavern was an intricate sigil scratched into the stone. Here away from the light of the moon and stars, Dietrich needed to magically enhance his sight to see what had been carved onto the wall. Eyes glowing red with blood magic, Dietrich examined the carving. Even worn by scratching corpses, the pattern of a necromantic ritual mark was clear. Dredging up his lessons on ritual work, Dietrich tried to decipher the purpose of the symbol.

As a Wyrmoi Vampire and Knight of Duke Drakovich, Dietrich’s talents did not lie in complicated acts of necromancy or other magic. His were more straightforward. Focusing on dominating and controlling the world around him. Through sheer force of muscle, mind, or minions. Tricky ritual work like this stunk of a Strix, one of the other breeds of Vampire. Still, Dietrich had been educated on the basics of this type of magic and could partially understand what had been done here.

Someone had created a spiritual stain in the Aether. A mark of concentrated miasma that sucked in the ambient magical discharges created by strong negative emotions. This ritual was designed to feed on loss and suffering, creating a nexus of miasma in this remote location. Perfect to lure in Ghouls and turn them into Grinners. After the plague, wandering Ghouls were not uncommon in these parts. And this was an arcane mechanism designed to collect and empower them. As long as someone had maintained and fed this spell it would keep gathering Ghouls. Which it had until someone decided they had enough Ghouls and shut the cavern. Trapping the transformed Grinning Ghouls until they might be needed.

As he finished his examination Dietrich spotted something. Lodged in the corner of one carved run was a little piece of black glass. Smiling, Dietrich grabbed the chip of the material and left the Cave. In the (relatively) bright light of the moon, Dietrich could see he held a shard of obsidian. The type of which often used to make an Athame, or ritual knife. Tucking the shard into a pouch on his belt, Dietrich couldn’t help but smile. He knew of only one Vampire of his court who used an Obsidian Athame. By the time the night was out he’d have a confession or a cask of ashes for his Lord.

Natalie sat and stared at the box. With Cole off chasing Ghosts, Natalie decided to do something she’d been putting off for a while. Examine the inheritance her mother had never told her about. While Natalie had known about the box her parents kept in the false bottom of their dresser, she’d never bothered to look inside. Her parents had assuaged her curiosity by saying it contained the Silly Goat’s Deed and other important paperwork. For some reason, the normally rambunctious Natalie had never bothered to investigate further. The reason became clear as Natalie looked down at the box.

Etched into its lid was a sigil, an arcane symbol designed to attach a spell to the box. At the center of the sigil was a fleck of red, a very small piece of ruby anchored at the heart of the symbol. Natalie had never noticed the gemstone or paid much attention to the symbol before. Her eyes had slid off it, and her mind dismissed it as decoration. As she forced herself to stare at the box, it became clear that was the symbol's purpose. Cole had mentioned something like this before. Magic designed to hide something, making it hard for someone to find an enchanted object unless they are actively focused on it.

Tracing her hand on the box lid, Natalie continued to force her eyes to look at the symbol. Trying to become used to its odd effect. Her fingers brushed the ruby, and Natalie pulled back her hand in sudden surprise. It was cold to the touch and crackled with energy, zapping her finger as a wooly blanket rubbed on carpet might. Natalie was far more shocked than hurt as she shook her fingers in confusion. Deciding she needed to ask Cole more about enchantments when he got back, Natalie opened up the box.

Her eyes widened in shock as she saw the wealth of coins and jewels sitting before her. Hundreds of gold and silver pieces. Dozens of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires poked through the coins. Natalie snapped the lid shut, stood up, and backed away from the box. After taking a deep breath, she sat down and opened the box again. The contents hadn’t changed. It was still a trove of wealth. Looking at the treasure, Natalie couldn’t help but laugh. She’d imagined her nest egg as maybe a dozen gold and perhaps a weight of silver and bronze. Not a veritable fortune. This wasn’t a nest egg unless that nest belonged to a Dragon! The amount of money she was looking at was enough to buy the Silly Goat ten times over.

Natalie had to seriously reevaluate her plans. While having this fortune would certainly make creating a new life somewhere else easier. It also presented myriad new dangers. For example, getting it somewhere safe and not having it stolen would be a serious issue. People had killed for far less gold than what she found herself in possession of. Barnabas had filled her head as a youth with stories of bandits, con-artists, and disreputable merchants. A young woman trying to create a new life with such a treasure would be an ideal target.

That line of thought brought Natalie to a startling realization. Her mother had done exactly what she was now considering. Travelling by herself from a distant land to start a new life, while carrying this small fortune. That idea was both comforting and daunting to Natalie. If her mother had done it, then maybe she could as well. But considering what had ultimately happened to Natalie’s mother and that she never discussed her past, the comparison was also worrying.

Natalie reached up to the hair clip she almost always wore. Taking it out of her hair, Natalie let her dark locks flow free as she examined the little piece of silver. The outer clip of the barrette was shaped like a bird in flight seen from a profile view. The bird was worn, and Natalie couldn’t tell what type of bird it was supposed to represent. Something else her mother had never properly answered when asked. Absently Natalie unfolded the barrette and flipped open the short stiletto blade hidden inside. Natalie stared at her reflection in the blade, pondering what she was supposed to do.

Eventually, Natalie shut the box and returned it to its hiding place. A pang of grief rippled through her, but Natalie quickly shut it away. She had so many things she wished she could ask her mother. Now she doubted she’d ever get answers to her questions. Letting out a deep breath, Natalie returned to her room and grabbed a few pieces of paper she’d gathered to write on. It would be good to distract herself from the worries about the box and her mother. Looking at the paper, Natalie just had to snort in amusement at the ridiculousness of that thought. To deal with the grief and confusion surrounding her mother’s death, Natalie would focus on avenging her mother's death.

Natalie spent about an hour scratching out words onto the paper. Trying to document and organize every last tidbit she’d scrounged up about Undead, Monsters, and Mysteries in the area. Over the years, Natalie gathered a truly ridiculous amount of information about her town. Something that had almost earned her a reputation as a gossip. Natalie had learned the hard way that being able to casually list the schedules, drinking habits, and personal indiscretions of people she barely knew wasn’t something that endeared her to most folk. It wasn’t like she tried to memorize or spy on people. They just talked in the tavern where she lived and worked. And she remembered what they talked about. While rationally, she could now understand that her talent was abnormal and that people value their privacy. As a teenager, Natalie had spent many a time angsting over why people loudly proclaimed facts about themselves, then became distressed when she knew those facts months down the line.

By the time she finished, Natalie had a list of maybe seven different locations that Cole might want to investigate. There were, of course, more possibilities. Shepherds and the like loved to tell tales. But these seven seemed the best bets. After that, Natalie pulled herself from her room and got to work down in the Silly Goat. The evening was coming, and with it, customers.

It felt good for Natalie to just slip back into the old role of barmaid as the day burned into the night. Balancing plates and cups, taking orders, and generally managing the organized chaos of a drinking establishment. While her father seemed subdued all day, he perked up seeing her get into the old patterns. There was a bittersweetness to it for both father and daughter. They both knew Natalie would be leaving Glockmire in a few months and would probably never return. So having little moments like this where they fell into well-worn routines had a specialness it hadn’t before.

The night wore on, and Natalie flitted between tables, making small talk and taking orders. Around eight in the evening, the Tavern had really gotten busy, and Natalie was putting her skills to the test in moving dishes and cups to and from the bar. While carrying a particularly heavy load of dirty plates, Natalie saw something out of the corner of her eye that startled her enough to nearly drop them. A face she didn’t recognize.

Sitting alone in the back corner of the inn was a well-dressed woman sitting by herself, enjoying a glass of wine. Natalie knew every common patron of the Silly Goat by name and could recognize a shocking percentage of Glockmires population. So having someone enter the tavern without her recognizing them or even noticing they’d arrived. That was something out of the ordinary. After depositing her load of dishes in the kitchen, Natalie returned to the stranger to take her order.

Now getting closer, Natalie could get a closer look at the stranger. Dark of hair with lightly tanned skin, the stranger was gorgeous. Sharp aristocratic features complemented by a curvaceous body and a palpable air of confidence. Sitting lazily in her seat, the stranger sipped a deep red wine from a glass and watched the tavern around them. The stranger's dress was sleek and fashionable, the type of thing tailors labored over with passion. Not at all like the utilitarian if colorful garbs of Glockmire’s people. Natalie decided this newcomer must be a stranger to the town, which, while rare, was not unheard of. Something Cole himself proved. But what really made Natalie wonder was where the woman had gotten the wine? Natalie hadn’t served it to her, so where in the Infinite Hells did she get it?

Approaching the table, Natalie put on her best service smile and asked. “Hello, Miss! Can I get you anything else!”

The stranger focused her attention on Natalie. Giving her a cool appraising look that quickly melted into a broad charming smile. The stranger answered Natalie. “Ah no, I am fine for now Barmaid. But if I finish my drink I’ll call for you.”

Despite the polite tone, the stranger's words dripped with a type of arrogance that made Natalie’s neck hairs stand up straight. Gritting her teeth in sudden annoyance, Natalie nodded and started to leave, only to be interrupted by the stranger calling after her. “Oh, Barmaid, I have a question?”

Turning back to face the profoundly arrogant woman, Natalie adopted the polite consoling body language she saved for drunken customers. “And what might that be, Miss?”

Absently the stranger swirled her drink and asked. “I hear a Rest-Bringer of Master Time is staying in this… establishment. Bring him to me, would you?”

This was proving to be a new and profoundly unpleasant experience for Natalie. She’d dealt with rude customers, drunk customers, amorous customers, and one or two who were just plain mad. But never anyone with this level of arrogant contempt. So it brought Natalie a bit of spiteful joy to have a legitimate reason to refuse what was clearly meant to be an order.

“I’m sorry, Miss. He is not currently here.”

The stranger made a huff of annoyance and leaned back in her chair. Taking a sip of her wine before speaking. “Well, when he returns, bring him to me. We have matters to discuss.”

Wary now, Natalie decided more information would be useful. “And who might I tell him is calling upon him?”

The stranger licked a bit of wine from her lips as she spoke, and Natalie froze as she got her answer. “Tell him, Dame Lorena Sartori wishes for his company.”

Natalie almost didn’t hear the answer as she was too focused on the stranger's mouth. Where Natalie had seen long glistening fangs in between lips dyed red by what she now realized was not wine. A Nocturnal Noble had come to the Silly Goat and had both Cole and Natalie in her sights.

The Dame noticed what Natalie had seen and smiled. Her sharp fangs were on display, a subtle threat for Natalie alone. Swishing the glass of blood she’d brought with her, Lorena spoke. This time with a coy playfulness that didn’t suit the situation at all.

“Now, let's hope this Rest-Bringer does not keep me waiting for long. Or I might be forced to take up your offer to refill my glass.”