Path of the Vampire forum

A guest. The repetition was tinged with a mild amusement. I guess you have been accommodating. The endless cascade of numbers slowed, their harsh white noise receding. As failsafes went, it was an infuriating design, if only because it could be so easily disrupted. A fraction of a second’s worth of inattention, and the defense slipped, disassembling like a Jenga tower. I thought you might show up eventually. There was no obvious slip; Leks resigned himself to counting backwards from a number at random. It was growing difficult to focus, he realized. It was subtle at first; a missed number. Another incorrectly counted. A heartbeat longer for him to find the thread of his thoughts again. He paused, assessing. His steps quickened, sacrificing silence for speed. It hardly mattered whether or not he kept silent any longer; Baxter knew he was there. He hadn’t yet pinpointed his exact location, but the unfortunate reality was that it was only a matter of time. A grim smile settled into place at the thought.

The numbers faltered a split second later, in sharp correlation with the sudden, sharp pain that scored along his hip. In his haste, he’d tried to force his way through too narrow of a gap, the rounded edge digging into the jut of his hip bone. The sear of heat registered moments before the sting of torn skin. He drew in a sharp breath, wincing, not in discomfort, but at the inevitable noise he’d caused, the dregs of it fading, dispersing through the vault. He didn’t pause. That would have been a fatal mistake. Instead, the damage done, he pressed on, forcing through the path he’d created for himself.

Ah. It'd be a stretch to use ‘loved.’ They've been advised how to handle my...absence. He strode with confidence, before abruptly coming to a halt at a section of a wall that loomed abruptly, before terminating, effectively, into a mock dead end in the murk.

The question gave him pause in his disoriented state. Your concern is appreciated. Such a...There was something borderline hesitant in his response. A puzzled thought briefly surfaced. Have I? He paused, giving himself a moment to assess. The fingers of his left hand lowered to his hip in a brusque manner, grazing along the persistent heat. The answering jolt of agony confirmed what had been a perplexed annoyance. The tips of his fingers came away wet, coated with the cooling warmth of his own blood. His hand lowered once more, jaw tensing as his fingers pressed against the wound with greater inquiry, running along the raw edge of the wound.

To his credit, only the barest hint of a flinch rolled along the length of his spine as the questing tips sank into the wound, disappearing at the first knuckle. The surge of adrenaline had been enough to spare him the wet suction, the sensation slick and grating as he'd pulled away from the axe. The fabric of his pants was damp beneath his touch; faintly tacky. Gracious host. He concluded, gritting his teeth as he pressed on. There was a slight list to his gait. A subtle protest from his wounded side, the joint refusing to bear weight.

Tempting. But the conversation would've been shorter, I think. Besides. I wanted the challenge. He briefly weighed his options as he spoke. There was an aloof calculation to his thoughts. A coldness. His reserves were rapidly dwindling, nearly spent. Even had that not been the case, the blood loss presented a new obstacle. It would fatigue him, render him helpless. That in itself was a generous assessment. It assumed that Baxter wouldn't simply slit his throat the moment he slowed.

He made a decision, then. Or perhaps it was the sense of Baxter's approach; the ghostly brush of the noose in the moments before it settled around his neck. He launched upwards, heedlessly landing on the nearest display, tread careful, mindful to avoid harming the relics themselves as he leapt from one to the next, hitting the floor a modest distance away before breaking into a sprint.

The wound tightened, voicing protest with a line of fire. He pressed on, skidding to a stop in front of the vault door. He lifted a hand, palm resting against it, fingers splayed. It remained immovable. Locked. Well played, I suppose. Oh. Not quite, I'm afraid.

He paused a moment later, a strangled note entering his thoughts. They buckled under the barrage, confused. He was, for the moment, still.

I’d have to be either arrogant or a fool not to. The retort was measured, matter-of-fact. All the same, there was something unbalanced in the mental response; an absence of his previous polish. It was curious, how difficult it was to think. There were too many thoughts to muddle through, overlapping and chaotic. There was no logical pattern or order to the thoughts; the effect was similar to those moments where a radio signal weakened, bleeding into another in passing, the words muffled and amplified at once as fragments of speech wove together. The difference, of course, was that the distortion was in his head. Do you think I’d have gotten this far if I hadn’t? There was a slight edge to his thoughts; a quiet sense of affront. Instinct warred with the static that veiled his thoughts. The impulse to reach for the weapon at his side manifested for the space of a heartbeat, fingers curling to comply. They closed on nothing.


I’m more shocked you haven't considered what a spectacularly bad idea it was to lock yourself inside of a vault with a timed release. His back settled against the door of the vault a moment later, savoring the chill that seeped into his shoulder blades. It was grounding; something he craved in the moment. He was silent as Baxter’s voice carried, though how much of his silence was voluntary was difficult to say. His tongue felt deadened, incapable of forming a reply. His sole consolation was that he could still feel the death that coiled at his fingertips; however delayed his reflexes were, he was secure in the weighted threat that rested, quite literally, in the palm of his hand. “Ah. Are you sure that yours is the only authority here?”

The response was quiet, a ripple of amusement coloring his words. “Maybe you should examine the loyalties of your employees more closely.” He paused, quieting as the rasp of metal against metal filled the confines of the vault. “Or maybe,” he continued, even as his chin tipped back, forced upwards to expose the column of his throat as the blade tucked beneath it, “you shouldn’t assume that I don’t know who you are.” A low, rich chuckle escaped him a heartbeat later. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Isn’t it?” He countered smoothly. “You’ve locked yourself in an enclosed space - with no immediate exit - with an unknown.” The cadence of Aleksei’s voice was even; admirably steady, given the circumstances. The only flaw was that, beneath the cultured tone - pleasant and virtually unplaceable - layered not unlike the top notes of cigar smoke in the way they overlapped, teasing at the senses - the hint of his native tongue emerged. It was honed; sharper than his normal, deliberately mild affectation. The words dwindled, muted by the renewed pressure of the blade against his throat. The chill of the steel bit deeply, heightening his awareness of the keen edge that nestled against his flesh. The skin beneath it blanched, flashing the soft white of old scar tissue grown slightly jaundiced at its edges. “No. I certainly hope you don’t think it’s ‘luck’ that you caught me,” he countered. That was the nature of bait, after all; it attracted predators just as easily as prey.

A low chuckle escaped him; strained against the flat of the blade, the noise thinner, hushed. “They’re resourceful. You didn’t have reason to suspect them until now.” He paused. “I could be lying,” he added, tone thoughtful. “Then again, I’m sure you’ve already considered that possibility.” He paused, swallowing around the pressure against his throat. “I…” He began, the words faltering as Baxter’s fingertips brushed against his side, trailing a lazily downward path. “Sorry. I wasn’t anticipating intimacy so soon,” he managed, breath hitching as the tips of the other man’s fingers grazed the outer edge of his hip. He grit his teeth against the renewed agony that unfurled as Baxter’s thumb pressured against the wound, slipping inside. A wave of nausea surged, forcing his jaw to tighten against the deliberate invasion.[color=#404080 “You,”[/color] he began, exhaling against the slight catch to the word, “are a man who clawed your way to where you are now. You’ve buried others along the way - figuratively or otherwise. You were a relative unknown until a few years ago. Your reputation proceeds you in...certain circles. You accuse me of not doing my research, and yet…” He trailed off. There is a common affiliation among recent coma patients. When they wake, it’s to find that their muscles have deteriorated, often to the point of atrophy. They lose sensation, range of motion. The effect of Leks’ own affiliation was not dissimilar. His focus was elsewhere as he spoke, settling on the index finger of his right hand. He focused his will; concentrating on the deadened digit. Slowly - ever so slightly, it bent. “How else would I know what would offend you the most? So I’ll ask again,” he concluded, his fingers curling around the handle of his karambit, drawing it from its sheath smoothly before lifting his hand, allowing the curved edge of the blade to nestle against Baxter’s side. “Are you sure your authority is the only one at play?”

The shift in Baxter’s posture was a sudden pressure against his deadened wrist. It was by virtue of discipline that it didn’t buckle, submitting to the weight that leaned against the point of the blade. The position was enviable - nearly perfect - in the fact that it aligned just so, capable of piercing the lower curvature of the man’s lung. There was a degree of hesitation in the line of his wrist - subtle, but present in the way his wrist slackened for the space of a heartbeat. He was careful to stifle the impulse that arose - an instinctive urge to slide the blade home between the fourth and fifth rib. Doing so, however, would only confirm the seed of suspicion he’d planted. Logic prevailed; a bitter thing to swallow. He supposed it could be argued that it would’ve been better to act; to damn himself and the hapless Crow. Instead, a bland smile settled into place. Admit nothing. Deny even less. It was the larger mercy, of the two.

He did his best to school his expression into something approaching neutral, if not entirely unaffected, as Baxter leaned closer, voice pitched low. The murmur stirred a curious mixture of rage and something else. Something that made his pulse race - a hard, violent pace for the first time since darkness had descended - before stilling. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He scoffed, the noise airless and mildly strangled at the curious feel of Baxter’s thumb drawing free of the wound. It was a sliding sort of suction; one that caused the edges of the wound to part sluggishly. “I expected at least a drink to loosen up before you tried to slip in a finger or three,” he countered. “It’s only polite.”

His wrist tensed a moment later, countering the press of Baxter’s side with a pointed pressure. His gaze was level with the other man’s own as he allowed the curved edge to catch at the fabric of his shirt, his wrist curving as if to follow through with the offer. "Something along those lines. Mm. I could…” He agreed. “But it’d be so much more appealing if you asked.” He paused, considering. The pressure relented a moment later as Leks’ hand fell from his side, conceding an uneasy truce.

There was a high chance that the crook could eviscerate him right there. But something told him he wouldn't. If only because this nightstalker seemed to be calculated and concise. There was no point in the man killing him. It wouldn't open the vault any sooner. It wouldn't doom him any less for when the Valkyries came in in the morning to open the door. If anything, he'd be stuck in an airtight room with a corpse for another four hours. In that time alone, the autolysis process of decomposition would have been well under way and Baxter's corpse and the putrification of his body would have caused a truly unpleasant experience for the other man. Still, even if this wasn't something the man was aware of, who wanted to be confined in a sealed room with a dead body? But then again, maybe this maniac was exactly the sort of person who wouldn't be bothered by sharing a room with a man he'd just killed. Baxter smiled a little.

"Three fingers, huh? How ambitious." he snorted. He didn't even pause. There wasn't even a second's hesitation. In fact, just as the other male had begun to lower his blade, Baxter brought up the heavy brass pommel of his sabre, swinging until it connected with the thief's temple. It wasn't a hard enough hit to kill but enough to cause the poor fellow's scrambled thoughts to given in to a sweet slumber. He leaned in again whispering.

"Why ask when I can take?"

All attacks landed with the permission of Aleksei's writer.