gray today, and the sheen of her hair was also gone.
'It must have been the horror of the attack,' some had said behind concerned hands.
'The loss of a loved one can often do that, too,' others had added, thinking of times when the friar had come to their houses.
But now, all the voices were silenced, for Friar Whelm was beginning his eulogy.
'We are here today to honor and mourn a brave man. Some would argue a foolishly brave man, but I would never say that. 'Whelm's hand reached out and touched the now-graying hair of Lady Larom.
Looking up, her devotion and respect plain to read in her face, Larom shed a single tear.
'This wonderful lady took up the faith of hope and light, taking it into her bosom. That strength comforts her in this sad hour. The vampire must have taken her brother as it has taken others down through the centuries. But she sits here, a shining example of what hope can do. Pray with us, brothers and sisters.'
The service was simple and quick. Friar Whelm made sure Lady Larom went home with respectable people, people who would feed her well and take care of her, people who would show her the ways of the city and help her learn how wonderful it was to be a part of the temple.
Friar Whelm wanted her around for a long, long time.
Filled with vigor it hadn't known in centuries, the friarcoraltan closed the doors of the temple, warding them from entrance. The portal wasn't locked, but anyone coming to the doors would suddenly find something else to do.
It needed to rest after feeding so well. It wondered if it should have used an energy spike on the woman: the herd expected such things. But the undead thing was so full that the thought of taking more energy during the normal feast time made it nauseated.
Then it felt a presence in the warded temple, an energy source it hadn't felt for centuries.
'Crave?' the coraltan asked the empty air. 'Didn't I tell you never to come in here after your first foray into the city?'
Turning from mist into monster, the vampire gasped in pain while leaning against the altar.
'I had to!' Fear and anger mixed with a plea for help in the sound of the vampire's voice. 'Part of that warrior's blade is still in me. It burns; the pain is unbearable. Do something, or I'll perish and you'll be left to your own devices.'
'Perish? You can't do what you've already done, and perishing is something we all do but once. Go back to your comfortable dirt before I become angry.'
'I want the sister. You've sensed the energy in her. I must have her, and I will. Today. Now!'
The coraltan shed its robes like a snake shedding its skin. Standing before the vampire, the creature revealed its true, undead nature, its desiccated and worm-infested body, and the vampire knew itself for the puny thing it was. Crave curled up before the transformed friar, much as the vampire girl before Lord Tenet.
'I won't hurt you while you remain useful. Come, let me heal your wounds and show you the light of truth.'
A spark spewed from the tangled maw of the coraltan and sucked energy from the vampire. It used that energy to heal the wounds the magical sword had made. Judging from the damage done to the vampire, the warrior would have made a nasty foe. The monstrous friar was glad.
'Did you turn the knight into a minion, or drain him dry? '
'After the pain he caused me? His body is in pieces all over my lair. His weapon and armor hide forever in a sarcophagus ten men couldn't open. Now, may I have her? '
'The Lady Larom is much too tasty a morsel for the likes of you. Feed, as we agreed, in your own way. I'll feed in mine.'
The coraltan stroked the head of the vampire as the creature rested in his lap. A look of wearied peace was on the face of the vampire.
The White Friar started growing new robes and thought of its next sermon. . and the need to talk again about patience. .
The Briar at the Window
Even as Lord Kromfier tear free his helmet amp;roar aloud in the Havok to rally his Folk, the Will of his men be break before the Daemons claws amp;teeth in the Darkness of Castle Harith. The Shriek of men clutch in the arms of fiery Monsters ring the Halls as their flesh be burn; bloody men beg for Succor yet be trod under-foot and crush; the Laugh of Daemons echo in the ears of the Lost. At such pass did the Wyzards of Demune lose sight amp; sound of the Lord in their magic Pool, yet they renew not the spell, for they see that all be Finish.
Of the Fate of Lord Kromfier amp; his Paladins we know No-thing, but for a Squire who be trample amp; be forget as dead. In the Blood of his Folk he lie, by-pass amp;forget by Daemon-kind. He hear in the Dark much of Awfulness, then crawl to tell all to a Lay-priest before he be perish of his many grave wounds. Before he breathe last, the Squire speak of the great Screams that. .
Something tapped at a window.
Lord Godefroy looked up through his pince-nez, his habitual frown deepening. He sat motionless in the halfgloom, the old volume propped in his lap on a crossed leg, and waited. Light from the oil lamp's flame flickered once across the steady darkness.
The tapping came again, fainter now. It was from the corridor to the entry hall.
Lord Godefroy took a slow, deep breath, though he didn't need to, and exhaled through his nose in silent rage. The yellowed bookmark was carefully fitted into place, and the volume reluctantly set aside on the tea table.
Lord Godefroy treasured his history books, and the early evening, after the sun had fallen and all was still, was his favorite time for reading.
He quietly got to his feet, the spell of the moment broken. Something always happened. He never got to finish that book, and he had been trying to read it for the damned knew how long.
There was but one thing to do about it.
Lord Godefroy left the room in no great hurry. He had all the time in the world these days. In the soundless hall, out of reach of the lamplight in the study, he shuffled through darkness that cloaked him like a second skin. Faint moonlight lit the bare tree branches outside on the lawn, seeping through the streaked and aged windows that opened into the old mansion.
The tapping came once more. Lord Godefroy stopped by the second of eight tall, black-framed windows. There he waited again, all patience, staring down at a dirty corner windowpane through his thin lenses.
A long, whiplike branch swayed gently into view, pushed by the cold wind and lit by the white moon. The briar swung close, then struck the windowpane with a faint tap.
Lord Godefroy reached for the briar. His right hand and ruffled sleeve, colorless as the moon's rays, slipped through the dirty pane of glass to seize the branch. He felt the thorns but no pain from their pricking, felt the wind but not the bitter cold. He was long beyond that now.
'Suffer now, dear wretch,' he whispered with bared teeth to the briar in his hand, then willed his words to happen.
The briar writhed with the jolt of the Touch and tried to curl away from him, but too late. It withered and broke apart into rotting dust before it could escape his grip, reduced to blackened debris. Lord Godefroy fancied the briar even gave out a cry of agony like an animal as it did, though in a voice too small to be heard.
The entire briar bush then collapsed, its shattered stems and leaves scattering out of sight. It was dead to its last root, a ruin that would feed no worm.
Lord Godefroy pulled his hand back through the old, streaked glass. The satisfaction he felt at the briar's demise was a cold glow inside him, new snow where his heart had been. To his discomfort, though, the emotion passed quickly and left him feeling hollow, useless. Lord Godefroy squinted out the window at the empty space where the briar had grown. His teeth clenched together in frustration.
The briar's death was not enough anymore to satisfy. It was far too easy most times to dominate and punish. His Touch would age any living being by decades in mere seconds; plants and small animals suffered and died too
