Confrontation ((Bruis))

[Aubin]

The heat of the summer was reaching its apex, baking Valir in the day so thoroughly that the nights provided no relief from the stifling, throat-closing warmth. Hours after the moon’s rise the pavement still radiated heat and the walls of the city’s buildings, both great and small, remained warm to the touch almost until the break of dawn. In the north end of the city, where there were no hyper-cooled arts plazas to escape to nor green parks providing leafy refuge, the heat seemed even more oppressive. Perhaps it was the general state of disrepair that made the heat seem worse; some quality in the graffitied walls that made the air seemed to shimmer more intensely with heat than it did elsewhere, some side effect of the sex and drugs that so many of the residents used that made them seem even more pinched and desperate than the citizens of other quadrants.

In the back alleys of the North Quadrant the heat reached its most unbearable level. The close, confined nature of the twisting backways let little cool air in and hardly any of the hot, fetid air out. Piles of garbage, some of a decidedly more biological stripe than others, added a sickly odour to the heat, making the air tang of sweat and rot, urine and something alive, almost mulch-like. Insects drawn to the foul conditions made the air hum as they flitted back and forth, feeding and laying eggs in turn in those bags that, over burdened, had split open, spewing their contents into the slimy puddles that pockmarked the uneven cement and brickwork paving.

In this unwholesome environment Aubin waited, soaked with sweat and suffering a migraine from the onslaught of smells and noises and overriding sense of danger and possible death that always hung over the north quadrant like a cloud. Rare were Aubin’s forays into this part of town and then, even on those uncommon occasions, he never ventured deep into the labyrinth of vice the Brudjans called home. It was near certain death, after all, for an Aurillian to enter into the north quadrant; to enter into the territory of the Aurillain traitor and his sub-human, sub-vampyr “subjects.”

Considering all this it was a strange thing indeed that Aubin, a known Aurillian, was so deep in Brudjan territory, not-quite-hidden in alley so anonymous it was unlikely his body, were he to be killed, would ever be found. It was stranger still, however, that Aubin waited in the alley that was nearly certain death for a man who was, no ‘nearly’ about it, absolutely death for any Aurillian – the Brudjan Prince, Bruis.

Aubin had told no one of his intent to see, to confront, Bruis, nor had he told anyone that he had been slowly and inexpertly invading Brudjan territory for over half a week, waiting in alleys on the off chance the Prince might pass by. Illiam’s inquiries into where Aubin was going each night were easily waved away with vague answers, the agent innocently assuming his lover and client was suffering from an excess of artistic temperament. Aubin’s clients were all put off a few days with false excuses and the various events he was invited to were simply refused, no explanation given. It was an idiotic, risk his behaviour, but Aubin neither cared about nor fully appreciated the extent of the danger. He had a mission, a self proscribed one to be fair, and he had no intention of failing it.

Another bead of sweat travelled down Aubin’s back, no longer slowed by the linen shirt he wore as it was as sodden as the vampyr’s flesh and skin. He was exhausted and overheated, somewhat dizzy from the smells around him, but he didn’t dare move. Not, at least, until his senses picked up the sound of footfalls, then voices, then, fainter, breathing at the other end of the alley. It took only a brief glance for Aubin to realize his luck had finally materialized in the form of Bruis, flanked by two guards, some two dozen yards away. Without thinking, Aubin stepped around the dumpster he had been partially hidden in and stood in the centre of the alley, his form impossible to miss.

“ Dè do naidheachd?,” he said, the foreign greeting, lifted from the language Aubin had finally deciphered from Sellica’s Brudjan document, rolling off his tongue with easy authority. “Bruis, it’s been awhile. We need to talk.”

[Bruis]

The Brudjan Prince strode through the virtually steaming back streets of his abode unaffected by the heat, insects or smell of unsavoury elements surrounding him. It seemed as though he were not merely immune to the sick feeling that overtook those not used to the North Quadrants delicacies but that he was simply part of them. Whereas the heated oil in garbage rose to the top of various surfaces to run them slick with its smile or mosquitos bit repetitively into the soft flesh of the many homeless that wandered the streets endlessly around the Marketplace, Bruis seemed out of place prima facie. His clothes were immaculate, with his long dark blue denim jeans and simple black silk business shirt undone at the neck and sleeves. His dark hair was styled and sleek and his mist colored eyes seemed to spread to places that eyes should never have liberty to wander to.

On a darker, more primitive level however Bruis was every inch the true and proper ruler for such a place that he inhabited. His proud streak was a mile long and prickled with other less desirable traits that stood up like hairs on the back of one’s neck. Conceit was one of them. Jealousy was yet another. Arrogance, cruelty and a sick fascination for pain had corroded the skin of what had once been a normal, natural soul, allowing for misery and malice to infect the wound and leaving determination, selfishness and raw anger to fester in the aftermath. Oh yes, Bruis might not have seemed the type to fit well into the scene that he dominated so easily, but if one were to see what others could not, the truth would reveal itself.

Like any good ruler, the Prince had his chores to attend to. Whether it was visiting the changelings once a week to see who progressed and who died, or making an example of a solider who had chinks missing from his training Bruis condescended to take a hand in the building of his faction, rather than simply sitting back and allowing fool to beget fool in a House where no one knew what the other had done before him, or what the next would do after him. His mother, he reasoned, simply put, was a woman firstly and a simpleton secondly. She had no head for war and therefore the reason why the Brudjan forces had been able to mass and regroup so quickly was clear.

Aurelai had allowed it.

The thing Bruis hated most in any opponent however, was pity. His mother claimed to pity him for the upbringing he had at the hands of his father and lamented not being able to ‘save’ him with an Aurillian education. The dark Prince seemed to disagree. His father allowed Bruis to find himself rather than forcing the opinions of a dozen others who considered themselves who knew better upon him, and the only Vampyr ever to have been born rather than made had lo9ved discovering each new facet of his evolving personality. He had honed his skills as a youngster and had earned his position as well as deserving it, and it was that sense of worth to the race that was Brudja that saw his subjects now follow him as their leader and not themselves as they had in his father’s time.

The emotion that he now heard tinge the voice of the Vampyr who had been lying in wait for him was dusted faintly, sugar-coated even, with that very sentiment that Bruis loathed, at least in part. He raised an eyebrow a hair’s breadth and refused to break his stride, moving at his strong but somehow leisurely pace along the alley and clear past the other Vampyr, his mother’s creature no doubt as Bruis hadn’t commissioned any portraits for the last two centuries at least. The ancient tongue, spoken long ago amongst certain individuals of Brudjan society was delivered with such ease the Bruis felt it keenly, however he neither stopped nor turned to acknowledge Aubin despite his obvious request for an audience.

“Noech tÏl dor verindarl¹.” Came the short reply at length, almost being swallowed by the hum of the insects that seemed to follow their Prince like a plague.

¹ ‘There is nothing to discuss.’

[Aubin]

Aubin had not come to the foul and boiling alley with a clear picture in mind of how his meeting, if that was the term, with Bruis would play out. He had carried absolutely no assumptions with him, no imaginary scenario (ideal or otherwise), nor an unspoken, unagreed-upon script. Bruis’ response, then, barely registered as rude or unacceptable to the artist, although it did immediately disappoint him despite his lack of assumptions. Aubin stood still a moment, back to the disappearing Prince, unsure of what to do, floundering in a sea of uncertainty and growing anxiety.

Aubin’s anxiety was not, it should be noted, for himself, however. He knew logically that Bruis was dangerous but he nonetheless maintained a flimsy fiction that the Prince would not harm him. Instead Aubin’s anxiety was directed towards Bruis and the soul he foolishly assumed the Prince both still had and valued. Some decidedly illogical part of his brain insisted that Bruis simply didn’t understand the havoc that he was causing; that he only needed to be told that his mother was hurting, was near tears at the thought of him, to reject his ways, come home, and rejoin proper society. Aubin’s more cynical side knew this to be a fantasy of course and knew too that Bruis was a monster; a sickly, violent degenerate that had made his choice with full knowledge of the ramifications and deserved all the more scorn for it. This part of him believed, as he had told the Queen, that there were none responsible for Bruis’ condition other than Bruis himself.

These two sides, two perspectives, squabbled amongst themselves as Aubin stood still, staring at nothing. A resolution was brokered however, and soon enough that it took only a few fast paced steps to come up behind the Prince and lay a hand, detaining but not violent, on the younger man’s shoulder.

“No, páiste gréine¹,” said Aubin gently, “There is much to discuss.

¹ "Illegitimate Child"

[Bruis]

Aubin’s words slid like an arrow through Bruis’ pride, the first listed chink in his own personal armor. The Prince stopped in his tracks, which had no doubt been the desired effect of the slew, and he turned slowly, almost languidly to face the older seeming Vampyr, even though little more than a decade truly stood between them in years. Mind signals to his usual two footpads kept them at bay for the moment. Bruis knew that the artist posed no physical threat to him. His heightened abilities in flying allowed him to sear through the air, almost becoming steam himself only to reappear, solid, behind Aubin seconds later. “Words have little usage in a war, henas uri¹,” Bruis said calmly as though he were talking to no one more extraordinary than the postman. A chill smile frosted his already cold features then, his long white fangs entirely visible. “Unless they’re planted and expected to grow into something fruitful.”

Without warning the serene expression on the Prince’s face blurred and he propelled himself forwards, driving the other Vampyr into the heat-dewed wall of the alley. In rare form, Bruis threw back his head and exposed his fangs, which he sank viciously into Aubin’s neck. Pressing firmly in order to rake through skin, flesh and vein alike, Bruis savage Aubin. The guards, now taken aback by so unusual a strike from their leader, fell silent. The sick snapping of tendons in the soft flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder filled the immediate vicinity, and blood now covered Bruis’ face like a hot mask when he released the maestro that would have done better to stick to his doodles.

Hawking back the liquid in his throat, Bruis spat a mouthful of the Aurillians blood on the wall next to the injured Vampyr, proof enough that he had never wished for Aurillian blood in the first place. It would be hard, reasoned the Brudjan, to speak when one had half a throat missing.

"Olim? Ferliech grend brulam?²"

¹ ‘Wrinkled One’.
² ‘Well? What would you say?'

[Aubin]

Aubin had not expected to meet with violence from Bruis, or at least not much. Even the part of him that knew Bruis was a danger and could, maybe even would, turn to physical force when cornered had assumed only a mild roughing up, a pinning to the wall perhaps, or, like Sellica had done, a knee to the groin – something, in short, that would function primarily to give Bruis time to leave. Aubin had not expected, not even in his wildest dreams, to be seriously hurt; to be seriously beaten. He had also not expected to be, in effect, mauled; savaged like an animal by a man that was, Aubin realized in a horrible jolt far, far too late, little more than a beast.

The surprise and shock of Bruis’ speed and then his actions actually staved off the pain for a few vital, much appreciated milliseconds. The disorientation of Bruis being at one moment in front of him and at the next behind him, then the surprise of being pinned to the wall and then….and then the fangs….simply overrode the first few shocks of pain. But the pain did come and when it came it was almost overwhelming. So sharp and severe was the sensation of Bruis’ bite, of the removal of so many vital parts, that Aubin experienced it more in heat and colour than anything else. It was blue-white; sharp and glaring, like light reflected off a car in the middle of the summer, so intense that one has to look away even before identifying the source of the glare. It was cold too, and yet hot at the same time, the burning-freezing of -40 weather on the thin skin of the ear. There was no relief either, not even the temporary reduction, half mental, that comes with a deep inhalation after a bad hurt for Aubin could not, simply put, inhale at all. This inability was discovered seconds after the attack when Aubin attempted a deep, panicked breath and met with no intake of air; only a wet, gagging sensation as blood trickled down his gaping, exposed windpipe and began to slowly drown him, racing with blood loss and asphyxiation to see what killed him first.

Throughout the first few seconds of pain Aubin remained surprisingly alert, surprisingly aware. Fast oncoming shock quickly began to dull his dying senses but not so much that he failed to understand what Bruis had done, what Bruis was. Unable to move, unable to anything but die, Aubin stared up at Bruis, trying to find the sweet tempered child he had once known in the beast-man that stood before him. He could still see the child even as he saw the man, could see them almost superimposed upon each other, but neither image or idea blurred into the other; the lines that separated them remained distinct and whole as if the child Bruis was a thing apart and separate from the adult version.

As his vision faded, the edges going fuzzy and dark, Aubin wondered if this was how Aurelai saw her child; as two separate entities that made no logical connection, no overlap. Or did Aurelai see the way the child Bruis fed into the adult one; the way the two parts connected? A mother’s perspective was always different Aubin knew; was it so different she could see the gentle child in the thing that Aubin was unwilling to call either man or Vampyr? Did Bruis himself see the connection? Did, indeed, everyone but Aubin see it? He had blind to so much about Bruis, perhaps he was only blind to this as well.

No answer could be given, of course, to Bruis’ question; at least not verbally. No attempt was even made in fact, although Aubin did indeed hear the question, did indeed register it. Instead he moved his hand to the gaping hole at his throat and touched is gingerly, pulling away blood covered fingers when he registered the disorientating sensation of being able to touch both his neck and the inside of his throat at the same time. Aubin stared at his hand, bewildered, and then reached to touch again. Strangely his thoughts were not focused on Bruis now, or what the Prince had done, but instead on someone entirely different. The only other mouth to have ever broken the skin of Aubin’s throat was Illiam and as he laying dying, Aubin found himself transfixed by how different the experiences were. Illiam had bit him to feed and play, to bring him to arousal, but never to hurt as Bruis had done. Illiam had always been all gentleness on that note, had always been supremely aware of how delicate life was, even for the arguably undead. Bruis held no such respect for life and had no qualms, evidentially, for ending it, which made it all the more strange that, Aubin realized with start, he, Aubin, had far more respect for Illiam’s power over him than Bruis’. Bruis would be his killer, yes, but his murder was base and animalistic. It was Illiam who had the power and control to induce Aubin again and again to put himself into the power of another, to risk his life on the request of another. Bruis, Aubin realized, had no power at all, or at least no more than any other predator of the fields. He could terrifying his subjects into control, could bully them with his superior strength and omnipresent violence, but he would never inspire them towards submission with anything but fear.

Aubin’s eyes shone brightly, glinting queerly with his new found knowledge. Through the haze of pain and encroaching darkness Aubin fixed his gaze on Bruis, the animal Prince, and saw him anew. Bruis was now neither the child of the past nor the man of the present but was instead something small and pathetic, weak and animal-like, something very, very temporary. The change made Aubin laugh which, considering his state, came out as a gurgling, gasping wheeze. It was a sick sound, a dying sound, but it was also evidently a laughing sound; a sound directed at Bruis.

[Bruis]

The attack that Bruis had launched on Aubin was no ‘roughing up’ to be certain. Those who had even heard of the Prince knew that he daren’t even condescend to sharing his blood with the newly turned of his clan, let alone indulging in that same precious liquid belonging to anyone other than his carefully selected hosts. Such a vicious strike was completely unlike the Brudjan, and went so universally against his character that even though he had now backed away from the spluttering Aurillian his bodyguards remained frozen at the gaping mouth of the alley in fear and confusion. A slick mingling of Aubin’s plasma and his own tainted saliva dripped like strings of pearls from the lower jaw of the Prince and his eyes, full to the brim with loathing remained fixed on the dying Vampyr as he attempted to cackle through the shredded flesh of his esophagus.

Had Bruis occasion to think that the pathetic shell of humanity now at his feet would live through the remaining night, he might well have taken a second pass. Aubin’s bait had been well and truly taken, although Bruis wouldn’t conceded in retrospect that he had any intention of his original words having evoked such a reaction. If Aubin held enough mind presence between his fleeting gasps of breath currently, he might have been able to determine the answer to at least one of the questions he considered. Bruis and the child he once had been were, indeed had always been the same person. Under his mother’s influence the little Prince had been a delight; inquisitive to a fault and charming beyond measure. When his father’s firm and often cruel hand had taken him from her protection, however, his malleable morals had been manipulated into a cloak more befitting the Brudjan he had now become.

More useless hacking from below roused Bruis from the hatred that had threatened to swallow him. With a nasty, deliberate snarl Bruis lifted back a heavily booted foot and swung it forward with one powerful stroke, crunching it into Aubin’s lower ribcage. He posed as it to take another, more vengeful kick before he sense something was afoot and hissed to his bodyguards in a primitive way derivative of the Brudjans.

[Sellica]

All Vampyr kind and those few humans who knew of their existence were well aware of which particular territories belonged to particular tribes. It was common knowledge, for example, that the Aurillians kept shop in the South and the Brudjans were holed up to the North. It was also well known that Brudjan activity was increasing both Western and Eastern wise, although the Aurillian security in place had managed to keep their numbers manageable. How long this miracle would stretch itself out no-one seemed to know, not even the Head of Aurillian security herself. She had taken to patrolling the streets at night, wandering with no apparent destination through the streets of alternate quadrants, and tonight she had decided to break from tradition once more and scout the North territory, the ’Desla’n bromio’¹.

Sellica never tired of stalking her enemy. Like a true huntress she remained focused and determined at all moments, even to the point of obsession. The hatred and grim malice she bore for her Brudjan cousins were exactly the traits that has so attracted them to her in the first place, and now she relished in the fact that she had something they had wanted; herself. A long time ago the blonde had realized the worst insult she had then been capable of delivering to the fools who had so callously attempted to end her life was to join their arch rivals, and so here she was skulking the back alleys of their rat-infested hovel like some sort of heroine first to the scene. Oh no, Sellica never tired of the chase.

But she definitely tired of saving the hides of those who apparently had no wits to recommend the North Quadrant off limits.

She struck before Prince, guards or even the victim himself had seen her coming, a feat only possible due to Bruis’ tractor beamed attention. A quick but powerful blow was landed on the back of the head Brudjan’s neck, causing him to whirl with a furious flash of his elongated canines. A low growl erupted from the creamy throated blonde and a scissor-kick accompanied it like lightning. The Prince managed to block the second attack, latching onto the leather booted ankle with a vice-like grip.

“Sellica, how nice of you to join our little party,” he quipped as though he wasn’t holding her in a semi-compromising position.

With a narrowing of her steel blue eyes, the female Vampyr pushed off of the foot still held to the ground, using his grip as leverage to contort her lithe form into a back somersault. The foot he didn’t have control of clipped his jaw as she flipped, causing him to release her in both shock and pain. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I assume my invitation was lost in the mail?” The only alleviation from her deadly fat voice was the questioning pitch at the end, something that was not lost on her opponent.

“Of course it was,” he supplied, seemingly amused despite the small tear on his lip.

“Oh goody. I wouldn’t want your mother to think you had completely given yourself away to bad manners.” replied the Aurillian drolly.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me,” apologized Bruis with mock sincerity. “I assume we can lay the pleasantries aside? I have prior engagements tonight, and I hadn’t counted on having to slaughter two of your ilk. Not that I’m complaining,” he grinned wickedly.

Whether it was the fact that he arrogantly thought he would be able to so much as make a dent on her person, or taunting her for being Aurillian, or likening her to Aubin in any way shape or form, Sellica’s eyes widened with white-hot anger. She charged, blurring through the cloud of small bugs that hovered under the fire escape nearby. Her anger would be satisfied by nothing other than physical contact, which was nothing unusual for the surprisingly brutal woman. A slick dip of her clever hand retrieved the small triangular knife she wore at the base of her spine, razor sharp on all three edges. A fluid flick of her wrist sent it sailing in front of her, and it sheared through Bruis’ breastplate and into his chest cavity as she fell upon him in her own delayed assault.

¹ - Lion's den.

[Aubin]

Through dim and fading senses Aubin watched Sellica descend on Bruis with such skill and violence that Aubin was forced, grudgingly, to acknowledge some small measure of respect for her. Aubin was among the weaker of his species he knew, and his lifestyle was such that he had no reason to develop physical prowess or to admire the trait in others. Now, however, he was forced to recognize the value of such strength, and to consider the depths of his lack as he rather rapidly bled to death. Not, of course, that he would tell Sellica of his revelation, if he could help it. Not that he was even going to get the chance to.

As Sellica leapt on Bruis, her blade driven deep into the vampyr’s chest, Aubin’s laughter began to slowly diminish. He was watching, he realized dully, the possible death of Bruis; the possible murder of the Queen’s only son. Whatever Bruis may have done to Aubin and his people, Aubin couldn’t find any joy in Bruis’ death, couldn’t find any value in it. Bruis was a monster, yes, but his death would bring Aurelai to tears and Aubin could not find any pleasure in an event than made his Mistress weep.

~~Careful Sellica,~~ whispered Aubin, using his superior control of telepathy to contact both Bruis and the female, ~~Be careful now, don’t damage him. His mother would want him whole, if she can have him as such. And besides, you must have mercy on him Sellica. He’s the only one of us that hasn’t died; he’s the only one of us that can possibly still fear it. It’s old hat for you and I, even for his weak little followers, but not for him. It’s still a mystery to him. Don’t frighten the child.~~

With his last words Aubin included impressions that despite being over half a millenium old were still as fresh and sharp as the wound that left him torn and half open. They were impressions of his own death, of the death he never spoke of with anyone, not even Illiam. Feelings and sensations of suffering and terror, undiluted as they had been at the time of his own death, washed over the pair, possibly reminding Sellica of her own death and giving Bruis what was likely his only experience with the black and empty maw that was waiting death. Death was a graphic experience, one that cannot simply be described, but one that once experienced is never forgotten. Aubin had never forgotten his, not even the sensation of the dirt on the floor that he had died on pressed against his cheek, and he had every hope that Bruis would now carry the terrifying memory of Aubin’s first death with him, even as Aubin, who simply could not be afraid of the same thing twice, gratefully slipped ever closer to his second expiration.

[Sellica]

Bruis, unprepared for the sharp bite of the blade stumbled backwards, left to lean against the wall behind him of his own accord as the remainder of the odd shaped hilt protruded from the gushing wound between his upper ribs. The rushed intake of breath the Vampyr had hissed inwards caused him to cough fitfully, making it painfully obvious that the poniard-like point of the strange weapon had pierced his lung. For the moment he was merely shocked, for whilst he knew that his healing powers would make short work of the wound his opposition had gone to such pains to inflict it had been a very long time indeed since he had been so wholly unprotected and indeed stricken.

Sellica, who had not stopped her assault despite her weapon finding its mark and the sibilant advice reverberating unwanted around her inner sanctum, moved forward once more towards the Prince. The bodyguards had long since fled, knowing full well they were no match for the Guard and in essence sealing their own fates as they went. She extracted her dagger callously from Bruis’ weeping flesh as if it were nothing more than a faceless piece of meat, and wiped it clean on her trouser leg before re-sheathing it. She got up close to his face and whispered something, her lips almost touching his. What it was that she whispered would remain between the pair, at least for now, but whatever it was drained what little color remained in the Prince’s face.

Allowing the Brudjan one more contemptuous look from her stale-blue eyes, Sellica’s strong legs carried her to the place where Aubin lay dying, a pool of his own hot blood surrounding him like a fountain. The coppery smell rose to greet her heightened senses like some sort of old acquaintance, and the blonde wrinkled her nose at it before she grunted and lifted the older Vampyr over her shoulder. Once he was as comfortable as she was currently capable of making him, the two Aurillians vanished into the night, leaving nothing but wounded pride and blood smear behind as evidence of their encounter.