Blenheim Palace

Mark happily obliges until eventually day sleep takes Aubrey. When she wakes again the next night, Mark is gone and so is the stake. It's unclear how many hours pass, but eventually she can hear shoes clopping down the passage outside her cell.

Aubrey sits cross armed waiting for Francis to finally arrive.

The footsteps pass the door and begin to fade into the distance once more.

Aubrey’s shoulders slump as the footsteps fade. There was petty and then there was being dick. Francis was of course just a straight up bellend.  She jostles the handle fruitlessly, then calls out again. “I hear you walking out there. Are you not going to stop in for a “Hello, let’s go over what happened?” Or is your plan to simply bore me to death because I hurt your feelings?”

Aubrey's demands are met only by deafening silence. Hours pass for her alone in her cell, before day sleep takes her once more.

Except it doesn't.  As minutes turn to hours alone in her 'cell', Aubrey tries her hardest to at first resist any urge to scream and shout. She had  things  to be doing that had nothing to do with appeasing some sicko's bruised ego, of course. Yet as the time drifted away more and more and the reality that he had no intention of coming to speak with her dawned harsher than the rising of the sun, she found herself starting to panic. Pacing and moving about the cell with greater fervor, her mind started to scramble. There was an answer to be gleaned here, she was sure of it. She just needed it shown to her. Looking about, Aubrey frowns, a distinct lack of suitable 'bowls' anywhere to be found. Rolling her eyes, she fishes under her shirt for the clasp of her bra at her back. Wrenching it free through her collar, she holds one cup up to weigh its potential effectiveness. Surely dear professor Odin's been forced to use his at some point,  she muses, failing to force a laugh out as her mind focuses on the task at hand. Dragging a nail across her palm, she carves through the flesh until a familiar flow of vitae spills forth into the satin basin. She nearly dizzies herself struggling to settle on a specific focus — a sheer bevy of risky topics clawing over one another in a bid for attention; Francis' greatest fear, his greating desire, the thing he most cares for, biggest weakness, secret, goal — until finally she clenches her fist, sealing the wound away and straining her eyes open once more to stare into her own swirling blood, a single simple sentence left to blare across her brain. How do I escape. The blood begins to swirl within its 'bowl', and she squeezes the edges of the fabric as the four words start to creep up in pitch within her head. How. Do I. Escape. An audible Crack , like the first steps over fragile ice, splits the silence. She considers looking away, to the ground beneath her from where it came, but she redoubles her efforts instead, reaching out with her fingers like wresting the strings of a puppet to dance. How. Do. I. Escape . This time a crash of splintering Cracks  shatter across the room, splintering away from her in all directions. But still she focuses, her chest starting to hurt as a final gasp of hope pushes her forward. ...I just want to go home... The cracks peter out. The blood calms. Her eyes water and pool. Finally, she raises them from the 'cup', only to widen them at the sight of the room beyond her rite. Fine cracks dance across the floor and walls, spidering up the door and branching as high as the ceiling. They chip at everything, leaving nothing untouched, a web of destruction sprawled outwards across the room, and all of it centered squarely on herself.

Vitae swirls in the cup of Aubrey's bra, forming an intricate Celtic trinity knot of two interlocking hearts.

Aubrey peers into the pool of vitae intently, her mind mentally prying the layers of blood apart in search of deeper meaning. The base of it was clear enough — the image of her sire's radiantly beautiful face draped itself her mind as quickly as the hearts did form — but the greater significance seemed more obscure. She'd already considered reaching out through their vinculum, so if all the 'vast cosmos of knowledge' blood magic itself could offer was something was already aware of, she had a lot to badger Odin about. If she got out of here. And if he was even still alive. She focuses in, pushing further into the void that lay between the super and natural, and as she does a now-familiar shroud envelops her thoughts. The room, already a peripheral afterthought, is subsumed in creeping shadow that pulls at the remaining tethers of her humanity like the fraying wisps of sinew and string they were, throwing her thoughts across a chasm of darkness where only the immense emptiness of the all-encompassing void remained. And it was there, where the primeval beckoned from beyond the weave of dark and light, that the discordant melody of a whisper echoed throughout her psyche. Listen,  it spoke in words that crawled with spider's legs across fragile flesh. Heed.   Obey. At once she is both understanding and gone, as before she can consider it any further her subconscious is hurtled back into itself and into the room around her. The makeshift cell drowns out the dark of the void until only the sight of vitae remains etched across her vision. Aubrey gasps, sucking in air as the bra falls from her hands and the rapidly coagulating vitae seeps slowly out onto the floor. It's only then that she notes the change in her surroundings. Aubrey traces the cracks with her gaze across the floor to the walls and ceiling above her. No surface or material was seemingly spared — deep gashes ran the length of wood and metal alike. Tentatively, she runs a hand down the nearby wall, unsure if what she was seeing was even truly there. Yet her touch proves it. She turns, the scene coalescing finally in her mind as she looks to where all the damage seemed to originate; the epicenter that spun out from the very spot she'd knelt in. Did I...? No...  she holds a hand up to her face. How did I...?

Aubrey walks towards the cracked door, feeling each splintered crack of the frame with her fingers. It wasn't going to crumble at her touch just yet, but it was damaged. And it wasn't just the door. Hard to make out as it were, her eyes spot the camera in the peep-hole before her mind even totally registers it as anything abnormal. Yet the lens was unmistakable, disguised as it were. Creep , she scoffs. She isn't overt in looking at it, however, letting her gaze pass idly over it as she continues to feel about the effects of her own sorcery. This wasn't anything Odin or Hera had mentioned could happen. In fact, she started to fret that she'd done something wrong. Had she miscast the spell? Did vitae not take kindly to swimming in the fabric of her bra? Had she not focused enough?  Or had she focused just right...?   The blood had spoken. Her sire was coming, she had no doubt in Cammy on this. But she would do all she could in the meanwhile, and maybe, just possibly, she could aid her sire too. At once, a pang strikes her from within — a burning urge to experiment further. It grew quickly, eating at her, bubbling within like the smoldering cinders of a fledgling flame fighting fiercely to be fanned. She had to do more but it couldn't be as simple as calling through the blood. They were, both of them, creatives at heart. If she was going to send her sire a message, it'd be in a language they both shared. Drawing forth a fresh offering of vitae, she begins to focus inwards, her mind centered squarely on that of her sire. She lets the blood flow around her, soaking her palms and flesh as the bond between her and Camille seeps to the surface, her mind racing if not her undead heart at every memory, scent, and sound she could recall. And as the sanguine tether grows ever-taut, she lets her inhibitions leave her.  What follows is a performance of near perfection; an ephemeral waltz through her own backlog of horror, brought forth to send the message she could not; a pitch for the devils. Rushing to the door, she slams a bloodied fist against it, railing to be freed, begging captors unseen to hear her cries of anguish. She stumbles back, sliding across the ground as her cruac again starts to warp the very room with her movements like a delicate finger pushed upon spinning clay. If the movements seem unnaturally natural, it's because she'd rehearsed them dozens of times before, in every B-slasher and arthouse horror flick she'd ever done. The feigned helplessness; the guttural screams; the agonized pleading... and all of it to convey exactly — if not overtly to any listening or watching that weren't so familiar with her or her films — the man who'd taken her. For woven within her words and movements sits subtly a single inexact sentence served solely to her sire: I'm being tortured my a man of shadows in Blenheim Palace.

( Continued from Keble College) For some time, Rae is quiet in the backseat of the car. She looks from the passing landscape down to Lotus, then back again. Her fear and desperation is drown out by a louder sentiment, simple exhaustion and exasperation with her recent events. She has no idea what the Strix could be doing to Gabriel, if he's even still alive. Does it know of Lyra, will it target her? Now that she's a ghoul, would she even be able to see it for the nightmare it is if it approached her? She focuses on Blenheim, on being trained to kill these things, to move with the strength that Francis does. Without becoming too much like him. "Parker, if I may, how long have you worked for Francis de la Fontaine?" 

"Oh, about a hundred years or so by now, Miss Andrews," Parker confirms, smiling at Rae in the rear view mirror.

"A hundred years. What would a hundred years do to Lyra. What would it do to me..." Returning the smile, Rae nods respectfully. "A great expanse of time. How have your found your employment?"  

"I live a comfortable life," Parker tells Rae with a smile in the rear-view mirror. "Lord de la Fontaine rewards loyalty very generously."

"I'm glad to hear that. He..." Rae pauses, choosing her words carefully. "How does he compare to other Elders, is he the norm or the exception? Or am I asking the wrong question?"

Parker considers the question for a few moments before answering. "He has... purpose," the driver explains, "like few who have walked this earth for as long as he. A reason to keep going onwards."

Rae regards Parker in the mirror, wondering just he'd seen of Francis to speak of him this way. "I see. Would you be able to share that reason with me? Or should I ask him myself?"

"I think that he already has," Parker replies as they pull up outside Blenheim Palace.

Rae ponders, then nods in assent to Parker's answer. To fight the Strix? Does that truly define him above all else?  Exiting the car, she follow Parker's lead as they head towards the Asp's Nest.

Rae is escorted inside Francis's hidden sanctum, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps still fighting the Strix in the streets of Oxford.

There is a moment of consideration as Rae lingers in the open space of the sanctum, unsure of what direction to take. Then her choice crystallizes. Turning to Parker as he's almost exited, she takes a step in his direction. "Parker? With Francis still away, could you tell me where Ms. Knight is being held? I would like to check on her and speak to her, if possible."

Parker turns and glances back at Rae with a kindly smile. "Of course, Miss Andrews." Rae is escorted down through the Asp's Nest to a deeper level that houses the cells. Parker shows her to a surveillance room, where she can see the camera monitoring Aubrey on one of the screens. A pretty dark-haired young man in white pyjamas is spinning on the chair in the middle of the room.

Rae braces herself as she follows Parker, preparing to witness the Daeva strung up by chains with fresh wounds. But as she steels herself, she's flummoxed by the sight of the young man in the room with her.  The state of Aubrey's cell is mysterious and disturbing, the cracks and wounds in the stone that weave their way through the space all looking to have emanated from her. A bloodied bra rests beside the seated woman as she clearly demonstrates a trance-like focus on something.  Was this Cruac? Did she know enough to do this, yet fail to escape? If nothing else about Aubrey is clear, it is that her determination is unyielding, and that she's willing to do whatever is needed to ensure her survival.  "Oh, what a little god of an Elder she'll make some day." She thinks on what she could do for her ally, quickly finding nothing that wouldn't result in her own imprisonment. So she turns her thoughts back to the horrors of the evening.  "Thank you, Parker. Could you show me to a weapon-training area? I'd like to try my hand with a rapier."

"Of course, Miss Andrews," Parker replies, escorting her back up to the same training area where Francis brough her the night before. Weapons of all shapes and sizes are arrayed about the walls.

Slowly moving across the room, Rae surveys the vast collection mounted to the wall. She could feel the secret language hidden within their craftsmanship, one that she was unsure she could learn. The strengths and intent of the weapons' applications seemed to lie in their make.  Blades of varying widths and lengths, with beautifully-made grips, pommels, and guards. One blade she picked out as a Khopesh, impeccably maintained. There were more brutish weapons as well, unwieldy for anyone her size, she imagined. Eventually, her eyes land on the shining metal of a slim rapier. Elegantly designed, with an ornate black guard that flowed almost like water around the base of the blade. The pommel was near obsidian in color, sat beneath an immaculately white grip.  Taking the blade up with both hands to balance each end, she feels the weight of it in her grasp. For something meant to kill, it was light as laughter. Taking the grip in her right hand, she wields it as best she can. She shuffles forward with a parry and a stabbing strike, before shuffling backward with another parry. She had no idea what she was doing. But she had to start somewhere. 

Time passes. Locked away beneath Blenheim, it's hard to say how much. Minutes? Hours? The flowing motions of fencing come more naturally to Rae than she might otherwise have expected and soon she loses herself in a meditative state of cut, thrust, parry, repeat. "Not bad," a familiar voice remarks from the edges of the training space, breaking the spell of Rae's reverie. "Take care not to over-commit when you strike. It leaves you off-balance and vulnerable." Francis explains.

Rae startles, her attention swinging to the darkness at the room's corner. But she relaxes and smiles, surprised by her ease with the weapon.  "How far apart should I keep my feet? When should I tense and relax my wrist? Should I ever plant myself, or should I remain on the balls of my feet at all times?" Lowering the blade, she holds its handle out towards the shadows. "I'm here to learn, Teacher. Could you demonstrate?"

Francis steps into the training space and begins to walk Rae through some basic stances, strikes and parries, paying keen attention to her form to avoid training in early mistakes. The two practice tirelessly for a significant length of time, before they are interrupted by James clearing his throat. "Apologies, mi'lord, but there's a Bentley coming up the drive. One of Adam Pierce's, if I'm not mistaken." Francis replaces his blade and marches over to a screen near the edge of the room to inspect the feeds of a dozen security cameras. A dark car is indeed making its way down the long road that leads off the A44 to the palace.

Already accustomed to finding a meditative peace in the flow of running and parkour, Rae is enthused to find that the system of stances and movements bring on a similar sense of zen. One to be employed with deadly efficiency when the time came. As they work through the movements, Rae thinks of her brother, of how she would even begin to try to find him. She would have to start at where she last saw him.  When the announcement of an Adam Pierce is made, Rae watches the presence of this person fully command Francis's attention. "Adam Pierce. Is he another Khaibit?"

Francis shakes his head. "Adam Pierce is a promethean. He owns a business providing high class transportation to the denizens of the shadow world. This isn't him. It's one of his cars. We have a visitor. One with money."

A promethean.  "I've read about them, but never actually met one before. Adam Pierce provides a great service, do you have his card?" Walking up beside Francis, Rae watches the dark car heading towards the building. "Were you expecting someone?" 

Francis waves absently towards James, who texts Rae Adam's contact card. "No... shall we go meet our guest?" He asks Rae with a shark-like grin.

Rae nods to James as her phone dings. "Thank you, James." Francis's cold smile briefly reminds her of someone, but she can't place exactly whom. "Yes."  With nonchalance, Rae follows the Elder out to meet this stranger.

Francis leads Rae back up through the halls and passages of the Asps' Nest and into the palace proper. They step out through the grand doors of the main entrance to stand beneath the towering pillars of the portico. Out on the drive, the polished exterior of a sleek, black car gleams under the courtyard's floodlights as it rolls up to the palace's imposing facade.  The gravel crunches softly beneath the tires as the Bentley comes to a halt, its engine purring contentedly. The driver climbs out and walks around to open the back door, revealing the silhouette of a figure within. With an air of elegance and grace, a woman emerges from the car, her presence immediately commanding attention.  Draped in a gown that seems to shimmer with every step, she exudes sophistication and glamour. Her dress, a striking wine red, trails behind her in a  soft whisper of velvet as she makes her way towards the palace,  each stride brimming with confidence and poise. "Camille," Francis declares in greeting, holding his arms wide as he walks down the steps, before taking her gloved hand and kissing it ceremoniously. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" "Francis, it's been too long," she replies in kind, kissing the air besides his cheeks dramatically. "You're keeping well, I hope? Do you mind if I come inside? After all, I've travelled all this way." "Not at all," Francis assents, gesturing up the stairs towards the door. Camille sweeps on past the man, stopping near the top in front of Rae. "...and who is this delectable young thing? One of yours?" "Oh, this is Eve 's progeny, Raziel Andrews. Raziel - Camille Renoux."

Fascination grips Rae as she watches the enthralling woman greet Francis as an old friend. She was about to formally introduce herself when the name given stops her in her tracks. She's here. She's come for Aubrey. Suppressing all instinct to panic, she holds out a hand to greet the Elder. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, ma'am. I've heard a lot about you."  As she'd experienced so often in the past, the ambiguity of Camille's presence cuts to her very core and she desperately yearns for answers and clarity in the woman's intentions. She extends the shadow of her soul out towards Camille's mind, and watches in unsettled quiet as a shadowy beast fades into view behind the Elder. The vision moves in sync with Camille, looking to sniff the air in search of something. But for now, it pays Rae no mind. She's just here for Aubrey. This won't end in blood and darkness.

" Really ?" Camille exclaims in amusement. "Well, isn't that just adorable . Francis, dear, do you talk about me that much?" "What can I say," Francis laughs with a nonchalant shrug, "I'm a fan." Inside the palace, the three vampires recline in an elegant drawing room, while James brings in a couple from the herd from which Francis offers Camille a drink. "So, what can I do for you tonight?" Francis asks. The silence hangs thick in the air as he waits for her response. "Let's not beat around the bush, darling, You have something of mine. Waify little thing. About five foot five. Rather big mouth." "Oh was she yours ?" Francis asks, feigning surprise. "Well I'm sure we can come to an agreement." Beckoning for James, he murmurs a few words in the butler's ear and soon after an iPad is brought into the room. Francis taps at the device a few times, before presenting it to Camille. Rae can hear Aubrey's exchange with Francis from the night before playing on the tablet's speakers. "You're quite welcome to her, once she apologises for her conduct." "I see," Camille replies tersely. "May I speak with her?" "By all means."

Rae watches the exchange in complete silence, observing Francis's relaxed attitude about the situation at hand. "If I may, I would like to accompany Ms. Renoux. Aubrey is an acquaintance, after all. 

"How do you know my childe?" Camille inquires cooly of Rae as they all leave the room and clop down the corridors of the palace towards the cells.

Rae thoughtfully chooses her words as they all descend, attempting to be as truthful as possible without compromising herself. "A coincidence of circumstance. The Circle had tasked her with tracking me down in order to answer for a mistake I'd recently made. We didn't get along upon our first meeting, but she's begun to grow on me. She's incredibly strong-willed and resourceful."

"A double-edged sword, perhaps," Camille remarks.  "May I have a few moments alone with Aubrey?" She asks when they arrive at their destination. "By all means," Francis replies with a half bow, retreating back down the corridor towards the surveillance room that Parker showed Rae earlier that night.

Rae nods in agreement to Camille's request, following Francis into the surveillance room. Once she's confident they won't be heard, she speaks quietly to the Elder. "How do we feel about this turn of events? Aubrey's confidence in her sire has been unshakeable since I met her, and the state of her cell tells me that she's furious."

Francis smirks slyly at Rae. "There are rules, Raziel. Without them, we are nothing more than beasts. Camille knows this better than most. Watch and find out," he adds gesturing to the nearby screen displaying Aubrey's cell. There's a loud clank as the lock to Aubrey's cell releases. Camille steps inside, closing the door behind her with a resounding thud. She regards the scene before her. Dried vitae stains the floor, door and the discarded cup of Aubrey's bra. The tiles have been cracked and warped by the desperation of her childe's rituals. "Aubrey..." she murmurs.

Time is weird in complete solitude. Days pass like hours yet each hour lasts days. The cell changed little in the time since Aubrey’s rituals, as all seemed to come to a complete stop: her movements, her mind, her very masquerade. All except for two simple things that only ever seemed to grow, locked in the shrinking, fractured walls of the cell: The first was her hunger, of course, which seemed to wrack her body more with each laborious second. Admittedly, it was a situation that had only been exasperated by her rites, but if those paid off, she was sure it will have been worth it. The other is something far less tangible but, even compared to her hunger, far more bottomless as well ー hate, pure and simple. With nothing else to do and nothing remaining to try, Aubrey was free to let her mind wallow in an endless well homicidal ideations. Anger, made manifest. A festering, cloying rage that leeched off of every pang of hunger, every second of solitude, every crack of splintered wood and stone. And it knew only one name: Francis de la Fontaine. When voices first emerge, she’s too deep in fantasy to notice, only sitting up when the sound of the lock turning breaks her free. He’s here.  She’s halfway through the opening words of the speech she’d practised in her head all evening the day before when the sight of her actual guest registers in her mind. By the time Camille’s voice reaches her ears, the rage of a thousand white sun’s dissipates in an instant, replaced only with the dirge lain dormant so long beneath the mask; one equally fierce primal reaction: Tears.  The eternally-young girl is wrapped around her sire’s waist before she’d even finished fully stepping into the room, hands digging like kneading claws into the woman’s back, and a muffled sob pours into the fine threads of her dress. “Y-you’re actually here…”   

"You told me exactly where to find you," Camille whispers, gently petting Aubrey's hair. "I didn't know that you could do that yet," she adds with a touch of pride.

"Me either..."  Aubrey further buries her face into her sire, letting the woman's voice do for her mind what several days alone had done to  it. Would that she could she would have stayed in that embrace for a hundred years, but the reality of the situation took enough precedence to pull her back. "Where is he ?"  Her voice is a whisper as she looks up at Cammy with eyes still wet. "Did you kill him already?"

"No," Camille whispers back, still holding Aubrey's head to her chest. "I didn't kill Francis. He's upstairs."

Aubrey’s eyes widen. “You know  him?”  Her whisper of a voice grows even quieter, audible only to her sire as she furrows her brow. “What’s your plan then? Can I kill him with you?”

"For a very long time..." Camille replies, with a fleetingly distant tone to her voice. "I understand that it's been traumatic for you, being staked and locked up down here. We will go upstairs and talk with Francis and then I will take you home."

Aubrey pulls herself back. “Cammy that creep tortured  me. Staked me. Dominated me!”  Her hands fly to her side, exasperated at the very idea. “The circle threatened to make his grandsire ー who he’d like, never even met ー  pay for nearly breaking masquerade and he showed up to kill everyone.  Brasenose was on fire . He cut my professor’s hands off. And he does all that to me and you want me to go ‘ talk ’ to him and leave?”

"He did," Camille agrees, letting Aubrey take the space that she clearly needs, "and in his own haven, the rules of kindred society grant him that latitude when it comes to disciplining a disrespectful neophyte. If you want to win, then you have to play the game, and Francis has been playing it for centuries. So, right now, I want you to do what is necessary to take you away to safety. Everything else we can talk about later."

"But—"  Everything inside her screams to argue back. Days spend couped up in this creep's cell had given birth to every revenge fantasy she could imagine; the myriad ways she would savour watching the light leave his eyes. The hope she'd clung to of her sire swaggering in to avenge her the same way he had done so to protect his grandchilde. And yet her sire was here, and she was asking her to just... let it all go. And the worst part of it was she would . Because it was Cammy asking. But the bitter taste in her throat as she spoke rose quickly and showed no signs of stopping. " Fine..." It was all Aubrey could cling to that her sire must have had some grander plan in the works. Be it the slimy, brutish ways of the Mekhet to rush in with violence and shadow — they were worms writhing in the dirt of the ground Daeva like she and her sire trod upon. Of course , she reasoned, if his 'prowess' is to swing swords and bows at all he feared like some medieval mongrel, then like, obviously a woman of the world like Camille Renoux would rip him apart in all ways verbal and social. And that seemed all the more humiliating... so long as she still got to see his eyes gouged out or something. Eventually. It would have to suffice as the one thing to cling to for now, at least. Well, that and one more thing. "..I'm not apologising, though."