The stagnant air of the sewer hung thick with the scent of damp mildew and the pungent acridity of decay, an olfactory assault that seemed almost alive as it clawed at the senses. Through the subdued glow of lantern light, Superintendent Beckham led the way, her silhouette unmistakable against the dank stone walls, tall and foreboding even in this underworld maze. With each measured step, the water pooled around her steel-capped boots splashed gently, sending ripples undulating across the murky surface.
The darkness of the subterranean space dared to close in around them, yet was persistently rebuffed by the lantern's halo. It turned the vapors that hovered above into a ghostly dance, refracting the scant light and painting trembling shadows. Kazelle followed, his footsteps a hushed echo to Beckham's assertive tread, his own shadow entwining with hers on the uneven walls as if in partnership with the macabre pantomime.
In her hand, Beckham's cigarette was a beacon of smoldering respite, the ember at its tip waning then flaring with each inhalation—a crimson mimic of Kazelle's own bloody pastime. The smoke curled in tendrils, spiraling away to join the sewer's cocktail of effluence, an odd communion of the foul and the fragrant. Every so often, she would flick ash to join the detritus below, a cascade of fiery specks momentarily punctuating the black water before being extinguished and swallowed by the abyss.
The clink and hiss of nearby steam-pipes constructed an industrial symphony that seemed to both defy and define the solemnity of the place, a mechanical heartbeat that thrummed within the bowels of the city. Rats scurried among the shadows, their sharp, insistent squeaks a stark reminder of life's perseverance even in the depths of human abandonment.
Above them, the city breathed and groaned, its diurnal rhythms a low hum against the sewer's walls, as if the very foundations of New Babel were whispering secrets that only these ancient tunnels might know. The sewage water echoed with these vibrations, playing a discordant reminder of the world outside—a world that, for a time, was left behind in favor of the grim passage they must navigate.
Time stretched, marked only by the unwavering progression of Beckham's guiding light and the surveillance of her unyielding demeanor. Every so often, a drip from the ceiling would join the chorus of the sewer, a simple yet persistent punctuation in the enveloping dirge of subterranean life. And through it all, there moved Kazelle, a dark patron of the night, seemingly at home amid the drear and the murk, as the ever-stoic Superintendent Beckham led him ever forward through the bowels of New Babel, enveloped by shadow, consumed by purpose.
Superintendent Beckham's cold demeanor could not fully conceal the glint of mischief in her eyes as she took stock of her company in the dimly lit sewer. Kazelle, despite having traversed troughs of blood and bone, seemed almost comically apprehensive about the filth that surrounded them. At his hesitant pace and the meticulous manner he maneuvered around larger pockets of sewage, as though the mire might defile him, Beckham's lips twisted into a faint, sardonic smile.
She deliberately splashed through a particularly vile-looking puddle, sending a cascade of dubious liquid flecking towards Kazelle, who recoiled with the grace of a cat avoiding a bath. He eyed the offending splatter on his coat with an exaggerated sigh of disgust, plucking at the fabric as if the mere touch might cleanse it.
Beckham chortled softly, the sound bouncing off the brick and mortar, melding with the damp atmosphere. "Wouldn't want to ruin those pretty shoes," she quipped, gesturing with her burning cigarette to his well-polished boots—now sporting a new camouflage pattern of New Babel muck.
Kazele reached his hand out towards her, knowing she's doing this for her own amusement, he held himself back, saying, "Oooooh I could slaughter you right now. But I won't because I'm manipulating you."
Kazelle glanced at her, then at his compromised footwear, a barely perceptible twitch in his jaw betraying his annoyance. He continued with more caution, stepping gingerly like a nobleman lost in a pigsty. "But indeed, these vermin trails are quite beneath me," he retorted, his voice filled with a feigned haughtiness that resonated in the oppressive silence.
At that moment, a large rat scuttled across their path, prompting Kazelle to halt abruptly and Beckham to pause and blow a lingering smoke ring with a casual air. The ring hovered like a specter as she studied the creature. "The local residents seem less than impressed with your lineage," she observed dryly, pushing past, brushing her shoulder against his as if by accident.
"Silence." Kazelle ordered with authority. "The sounds from your human language are attracting dirt all over the place."
"Okay that's mean."
Quiet mirth colored her tone, betraying her delight in this odd game of pestering the dark figure who was more accustomed to instilling fear than exhibiting this unforeseen fastidiousness. Each step she took seemed to aim for maximum disturbance, a jest, a tease at his expense, her nonchalance a stark contrast to his careful dance around the muck.
"Very well, sir. Please, glide on and do avoid the cesspools," she said with mock solemnity, barely stifling a chuckle as she flicked another ash from her cigarette. It fell short of him this time, but the message was clear: in this dreary underbelly, her sarcasm reigned as much as the rot and Lushen, for all his dark grandeur, was not exempt from her twisted form of guidance.
Beckham, smoking her cigarette, asked, "What's the matter?"
"It smells horrid in here."
"Yeah? Well it's the sewer. It's basically dirty literal shit that rides through here."
"Well it's disgusting."
"It's not dirty in that vampire world of yours?"
"Being filthy is against the law at the Crimson Spire."
"Oh yeah? What's the punishment?"
"Get shot in the face."
"Ah that's cool."
"It was a joke. I've been working on my jokes with my servant Hajun. Have you encountered him?"
"I probably have, it seems the vampires at the den have forgotten who they were, but they know they are vampires."
"Forgotten…their memories.."
'What's wrong with their memories?'
"You would probably recognize them if you saw them, right? Or no?"
"I have not seen every face at the Crimson Spire kingdom."
"No?"
"No."
"Well then, there's a first for everything."
They entered a large cave, a cave lit up with lanterns and black coffins laying around. It was silent in there, empty sounding.
Kazelle said, "So did you trick me? Where are-."
A quick flash rang out, and Beckham sighed, "Here they go again."
In the labyrinthine depths of New Babel's sewers, Kazelle's predatory grace was put to the test by the sudden assault of two shadowy assailants, their forms undulating with the dark weave of vampire magic. The first scenario erupted into chaos as they lunged with beast-like agility, their movements a blur, aiming to ensnare him in an otherworldly snare.
Their hands crackled with an eldritch energy, tendrils of power seeking to leech onto his being, but Kazelle danced back with a balletic pivot, his smile unwavering, a taunt carved onto his chiseled features. He leaped effortlessly onto a nearby pipe, the metal groaning under his weight as he surveyed the frustrated attackers below.
The figures adapted, mouths agape with arcane incantations, sending spectral daggers slicing through the air towards him. But Kazelle, anticipating their trajectory, twisted and somersaulted, his coat billowing like the wings of a raven—he was the matador to their fury, and the air was his arena. This sequence saw the attackers conjure a vortex of shadows, attempting to swallow Kazelle whole, a trap sprung from the very essence of darkness. Yet, with a burst of unmatched speed, he shot upward, his form a fleeting silhouette amongst the dimness, his laugh echoing—a provocation in the echoing dark.
The encounter became a vertical chase, the vampire assailants scaling the slick walls with supernatural ease, their fingers and toes finding holds where none seemed to exist. But Kazelle climbed faster, his ascent mocking their desperate pursuit, turning the hunt upon the hunters. The display unfurled with the assailants attempting to corner Kazelle, their combined might coalescing to form a wall of force designed to crush him. But coolly, he flicked a hand, propelling himself with a surge of hidden strength, spiraling through the smallest gap that they afforded—his figure a dagger through silk. They sought to overwhelm him with sheer speed, darting from shadow to shadow. But even as they became mere whispers upon the air, Kazelle traced their patterns, his preemptive deflections and sidesteps turning their aggressive blur into a harmless display of might and magic.
The final clash witnessed the figures erupt in silent rage, unleashing a torrent of arcane power that surged like a tidal wave, promising doom to any caught in its wake. And yet, with a mirthful grin, Kazelle leapt toward the tempest, a wraith amongst the chaos. He emerged untouched on the other side, landing with the softness of a cat, as the attack collapsed into nothing but vapor and the frustrated snarls of his assailants.
Their irritation mounted, a seething undercurrent to the relentless flow of water and filth, while Kazelle remained unscathed, always one step beyond their ravenous reach.
In the blink of an eye, Kazelle grabbed the two figures by the face, and slammed the back of their heads into the sewer wall, cracking it heavily.
Kazelle wanted to kill them. His bloodlust was rising, it's what he was raised to do, "kill and judge to instill fear", he always heard, "That is what makes a king respected." Hearing that all the time. 100% of the wars in the Crimson Spire were caused by a rebellion of the vampire kin, vampires who hated the merciless reign of King Kazelle, they themselves created armies and kingdoms of their own, even though everything and everyone was under one rule and law and kingdom, even the bloodlines were under the Crimson Spire.
He knew the two assailants were vampires, and he smirked, "What made you two want to fight me, Darius and Calista? Do you not recognize your king? Wow."
'These two..brother and sister…they always argued at the kingdom, both commanders of my army. Both extremely obnoxious when they butt heads, but they are indeed strong. If their memories are screwed, how much of it was affected? And why are there memories like that? And why are they here to begin with? Why are all the vampires here?'
(FLASHBACK)
The two vampiric siblings stood before Kazelle, their majestic statures diminished somewhat by the pettiness of their quarrel. Calista, swift and deadly as the night's whisper, adorned in a raiment of crimson silk that clung to her like a second skin, her hair a silken cascade of moonlit silver that shimmered with each subtle, irritated tilt of her head. Beside her, her brother, Darius, formidable and proud, with an obsidian mane that contrasted sharply with his alabaster skin, his attire a constellation of dark leather and chains, each a testament to his prowess in combat.
Kazelle, ever the epitome of regal poise, watched over them with an amused glint in his ageless eyes. They were there to seek judgment, but the scene unfolding was less courtly dispute and more akin to a theatrical comedy.
"Your Highness, please inform my brother that it is my turn to take the Crescent Blade into battle," Calista began, each word dripping with condescension, her slender fingers tracing the edge of an invisible blade.
Darius scoffed, casting his sister a scornful glance. "My dear Calista, if you'd recall, you squandered your last chance with that blade—prancing about the battlefield and showing off for the thralls!"
Calista's eyes flashed with an unholy fire. "Showing off? How dare you! I wielded it with the grace and precision befitting its legacy. Unlike some who mistake brute force for skill..."
Darius bared his fangs, barely containing his growl. "At least I don't need a mirror on the battlefield to admire myself mid-slaughter!"
Kazelle's throat released a chuckle rich with the weight of centuries, watching as they continued to bicker, their childish antics unfolding within the grandeur of the vampire court. "Calista, Darius," he intoned, his voice a melodic cadence that demanded silence. "Must I remind you both that the Crescent Blade cares not for squabbles, but only for the blood of our enemies?"
They paused, their fiery gazes snapping to Kazelle, chastened momentarily by the authority in his words. Calista straightened, her posture that of defiant nobility. "Of course, Your Highness. It is merely that the blade sings in my hands. It belongs to me."
"And in my hands, it roars," Darius retorted, his chest swelling with pride.
Kazelle leaned back, the throne embracing him like a shadow, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly. "Do not worry yourselves any longer; the Crescent Blade will be split in twain. Half for each, perfectly balanced as things should be, I guess."
Their faces contorted in horror at the blasphemous suggestion, horror and incredulity momentarily aligning them in the same front. "Split the Crescent Blade?" Calista gasped, her voice a hush of bewilderment.
Darius shook his head fiercely. "No, no. Even our squabbles are not worth such sacrilege!"
As quick as it appeared, Kazelle's smirk faded, replaced once more by the impassive mask. "Then perhaps you shall learn to share its legacy, lest your quarrels lead to a decision far grimmer."
Chastised, the siblings exchanged a look that was equal parts reluctant acceptance and lingering dissatisfaction. And so, as Kazelle watched, Calista and Darius exited the chamber, each casting surreptitious glares at the other, their bond unbreakable as their rivalry was inexhaustible.
(FLASHBACK END)
Kazelle let them go, and Calista said, "Ack! How dare you just GRAB me by the throat!"
Darius added, "Yeah what's the deal?! Who are you anyway?"
Kazelle responded by tilting his head to the right, "You've gotta be joking, right? You two fools just attacked me, I almost slaughtered you."
Darius and Calisata chuckled, "Slaughter us?"
Beckham walked towards them, and said, "You Two don't know him?"
Calista replied, "Uh..It's hard to tell."
Darius rubbed his chin, "Yeah you look really really familiar, like I've seen you before."
Beckham looked at Kazelle, and Kazelle thought, 'Their memories have been wiped, but I wanna know how far they have gone. Why is this happening? What's their purpose for being here? Maybe if I ask them the right questions..'
Kazelle asked, "Why are you two here in this mortal realm?"
Darius and Calista looked at each other, saying to Kazelle, "First off, we wanna know-."
Kazelle walked closer to them with a menacing look, asking again, "Why are you two here?"
The siblings' chest began to burn silently as they felt the anxiety and fear swelling up within them.
Darius thought, 'Who..the hell is this guy?!'
Calista spoke up, "We were born here, our parents were two old people who raised us and kept us hidden."
Kazelle was confused, knowing all vampires were born in the Crimson Spire kingdom, the realm of vampires.
'Were their memories replaced with lies?'
Beckham asked Kazelle, "Something not right or what?"
"Of course it isn't." Kazelle slightly scoffed, his frustration building by the second. "Their memories have been altered, they don't know who I am, and yet, they know each other. All vampire siblings have a deeper connection that goes past the roots of magic and any spell, nothing can sever their connection or bonds. Whoever altered their memories couldn't access that."
'Was it Visceris?! If this is happening, did he erase my wife and daughters memories? What about my subordinates? Hajun? What should I do now?..Work with this human? It's taboo to even work with a human, but in this case….I'm on my own out here in this mortal realm, and this fragile female is the only one I've got that's close to a bridge to Visceris and the Crimson Spire. Tch. I hate this. I hate it so much. Okay. And as for the siblings, I have to find a way to restore their rightful memories.'
Kazelle turned around, and asked Beckham, "What do you want me to do? You were talking about helping, you expose the higher ups of the New Babel Constabulary, and In exchange, you would help me find the Gorron cult zealots."
'I don't have access to my full power. My heart has all my power in it, and for some reason, it's in hell.'
Darius spit to the side, "Hmph. Damn those cultists zealots. And there's no WAY IN HELL, im helping a guy who just slammed me and my sisters head in the wall. No way, no how."
Beckham answered, "Oh right, totally. Listen, our first job is to find a rogue vampire who was once a part of our little superhero group, and he's been on a killing spree around this time at night. Goes by the name of Raccun.
Kazelle gasped, thinking, 'Raccun…'
Beckham noticed Kazelle's expression, and asked, "Name rings a bell doesn't it?"
"It does."
(FLASHBACK)
The foreboding sight of the Crimson Spire Kingdom loomed large over the gathered assembly, its towering ramparts piercing the night sky, their tips lost to the heavy shroud of an eternal dusk. The vast courtyard was a mosaic of shadow and crimson light, stained glass windows of the high tower exuding a soft, bloody luminescence that caressed the faces of the anxious vampire king candidates and their broods with a spectral glow.
The area was filled with chattering children, vampire king candidates, the grounds were a testament to gothic grandeur; black marble shot through with veins of deep red, statues of former rulers whose marble eyes seemed to observe the present gathering with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. The heavy scent of ancient blood and power permeated the area, undercut by the fresher iron tang from nervous aspirants, their life-force vibrant and expectant. Whispers flitted through the air, a living mist heightened by the anticipation of the Eye's forthcoming decision.
"Kazelle is already the king, can't you see? Just look at him, every bit the sovereign," boasted a noblewoman draped in robes of silken onyx, her ruby-tipped fingers entwined tightly around a delicate crystal goblet.
Surrounded by fawning nobles, young Lushen stood proudly, his chin arrogantly lifted high, eyes flicking dismissively over his fellow candidates. The smirk playing on his lips betrayed his disdain for the formality, the cocksure tilt of his head a silent challenge to anyone who dared to look upon him.
Not far from Kazelle's entourage stood Raccun, his dark brown and black hair immaculate, and dark pink eyes with snake like pupils, his features chiseled and haughty. He was the embodiment of vampiric aristocracy, his coat of deep purple adorned with sigils of his prestigious lineage, the silver filigree sparkling under the light of enchanted torches. "Once the Eye sees my future, the Sanguine Counsel will have no choice but to choose me," he pronounced with imperious certainty, his parents beaming with pride beset with the greed for power.
A hush descended as the enigmatic Sanguine Counsel, garbed in raiments that whispered of forgotten eons, emerged onto a high balcony overseeing the proceedings. Their somber gaze surveyed the spectacle of aristocratic one-upmanship below, their faces a finely crafted mask of neutrality, but their presence sent ripples of both reverence and fear throughout the courtyard.
A peculiar event unfolded as the sibilant murmur of the crowd shifted into startled gasps. A raven, as black as the abyss from whence it came, swooped down and perched itself atop the courtyard's central effigy. It peered down at the candidates with an intelligence that was unsettling, its onyx eyes reflecting both the present and the veiled mysteries beyond mortal understanding.
Finally, the moment arrived, and the silence grew so heavy that one could almost feel the weight of destiny pressing down. The Eye emerged, its form a column of vaporous energy that flickered with lives yet lived. The entity hovered before each candidate, pausing, searching, its inner light pulsating in cryptic rhythms.
As it passed over Raccun, the courtyard held its breath, watching for any sign. Yet, the Eye moved on, indifferent, leaving behind a storm of bewilderment and dawning indignation on Raccun's once confident facade.
Without fanfare or grand proclamation, the Eye coalesced before Kazelle, enveloping him in its ethereal embrace. The crowd erupted into murmurs of shock and controversy, the noblewoman crowing victory while onlookers whispered of nepotism and machinations.
Kazelle basked in the silent declaration, a preening conqueror, while Raccun, with rage contorting his noble features, refused to comprehend the turn of events. How could this be? The Eye's selection was law, yet an unwritten one: unpredictable, unyielding, and inscrutable.
"Why him?" hissed Raccun under his breath, his eyes ablaze with thwarted ambition. The thought of offering a blood sacrifice to pry secrets from the Eye crossed his mind, as it did many others', but fear sieved away the temptation. The price was too steep; the consequences, a shadow even the bravest of hearts dared not chase.
The spectacle was short-lived as the Sanguine Counsel closed the ceremony with a subtle, all-encompassing gesture. The destinies etched this night would lay the foundation of centuries to come, and Kazelle, now the chosen scion of the Crimson Spire Kingdom, stared ahead, his immature haughtiness already giving way to the creeping realization of the mantle he was to assume, a weight he had never truly anticipated.
(FLASHBACK END)
"He was my first rival. Since we were kids, he always hated me. I was the best. I'm still the best, but you know."
Calista said, "You're too old to have a rival, old man-."
Darius closed Calista's mouth, whispering to her, "Shut up! Shut up! Shit up! Shut up!"
Kazelle said to them, "We're the same age."
The siblings froze, stuttering, "S-Same age?l WE'RE OLD?!"
Beckham took another puff of her cigarette, "It's best to do it now while we got him."
Kazelle replied, "I'll handle this alone."
Darius and Calista scoffed, "No! We're going! Gotta make sure you aren't plotting a betrayal."
"Shut up. No one's betraying anyone. If you follow me, I'll end you myself. Raccun is powerful. Too much for you two. Tell me where to look, human.
'That bastard Raccun…what are you doing?! Please have your memories…'