Double Trouble [Eris/NPC Encounter]

[Vlad III Țepeș]

3:33 PM
22nd of January, 2012 A.D.
Withered Gardens, The Spirelands

"Fan out and find it," Count Drăcula snarled as three of his Nosferatu subordinates, dressed in their aristocratic garments in an ill attempt to conceal their naturally hideous visages, bowed before their lord and master in compliance to his order. "Do not return to me until you have captured that scum alive." With three obedient nods, the vampire demons darted off in different directions until they were no longer in their king's line of sight. The Count hardened his unfeeling gaze even more than it was known to be, stroking his pointed beard with a mixture of both curiosity and rekindled rage.

His infamous thirst for blood had already been sated earlier today; a lone Arcanist in the Great Undercroft had been foolish enough to assume itself more powerful than the Lord of the Nosferatu, an error that was to be its last. Draining its liquid life force was no easy task with all the armor it wore, but he eventually succeeded in his endeavors. Now that he recalled the whole ordeal, its blood did have a bit of a spicy kick to it, what with its mastery over flame. It was most palatable; perhaps he'd savor it in the near future?

Alas, there was a time and place for everything, including reminiscing about past conquests. But now was not the time, as a most peculiar enemy had surfaced within the Spirelands through the Count's predatory sense of smell. He could not discern what kind of demon it was, but the stench that it carried was one he was all too familiar with.

It was that of an Ottoman soldier.

So, even after five hundred years, these filthy slugs were still lurking about? Drăcula softly snorted as memories of his seven-year campaign to drive them out of his beloved Wallachia boiled to the surface. He clenched his ghost white fingers into tightly bound fists as he felt the rage that festered at the bottom of his blackened heart seethe and blister within him, doing his utmost best to maintain his kingly composure. He closed his eyes, then took a deep breath. He took several more before his bottomless rage subsided—for the time being—as he concentrated on how best to capture and dispose of the cretin in hiding.

It would only be a matter of time before one of his servants would come back. As they were all aware of by now, failing Lord Drăcula was never an option.

[Alice the Chopper]

Eris had already fulfilled her daily violence lust. What a scene it was, at that. First the demon's face was crushed in, then it's flesh was visible, then she was smashing nothing but a mess of brains and bone fragment. Rocks: a primitive and effective weapon. it was only a pathetic Leaper, something she had killed countless times over again. The kill was satisfying, but she thirsted for more. She needed something special, something different. A rumor that an Ottoman soldier, a legendary one in life, was walking the Spirelands, living in it's cursed lands.

That wouldn't do.

The filthy Ottomons. A disgusting and vile people. None could be permitted to live, not even in the afterlife. The she-demon had a special method for disposing these creatures: decapitation. It was only fair, after all, as they were the ones to bring the damned fate to her. Furthermore, a select few of these cockroaches knew her real name. That name shall never be spoken, and she was going to make sure of it. God probably thought it was pretty funny to curse somebody with their own name.

"Thanks for nothin'." Eris spoke with irritation, applying more pressure to the lesser demon's chest with her foot. She decided to look for the Ottoman by fishing information, as most demons in the Spirelands were sentient. It may of been a poor plan of action, however, as demon nature promotes lying. Many of these creatures spoke lies or lead the shapeshifter to a dead end, which did nothing but waste her time. After eight hours of searching, you begin to get a little irritated.

"Why don't you look for him yourself, bitch!" The humanoid demon cried out in pain, feeling his ribs crushing. He was obviously weak in power, being almost completely human, besides for a pair of ox like horns. "Why wont you?" The silver haired demon said, before pulling her foot out of his chest and proceeding to jab it in his left eye, pushing the organ and crushing it inside of his eye socket. The victim yelled out a shrill cry. Before the cry was finished, Eris took her heel out of his left eye and did the same operation on his right, increasing the volume of his scream. "Oh yeah, I forgot you were blind!" The doppelganger laughed at her own joke, before kicking her poor victim to push him aside and walking away.

She had only walked a few meters before coming across another demon. Another demon, another victim. Or perhaps this one would actually be useful? "Hey pal!" Eris yelled out to the elaborately dressed character. He seemed different than the average punks she'd been beating up all day. He had power in his walk, his aura. His long white hair, his fine clothing, his pale skin. Something about this demon was familiar. Regardless, the jester like demon walked up to him and placed her arm around his shoulder rather forcefully, but would simply keep her hands to herself if he moved her off of him. "Do you have a moment?" Eris said in his ear in native tongue, "I'm looking for an Ottoman." She wouldn't give him much of a chance to speak before adding onto her previous sentence, "He's been quite naughty, you see."

[Vlad III Țepeș]

Unmoving as a marble statue, Lord Drăcula waited patiently for at least one of his vampire subjects to return with news of the Ottoman demon's capture. Roughly five minutes had passed since his orders were issued, but this was to be expected. The Spirelands were vast and spacious, and the Nosferatu weren't familiar with the geography of Lucifer's domain as they would have been with Mammon's realm, the Regal Necropolis. Furthermore, they were merely three demons behaving as a single unit; the lack of numbers certainly made the task at hand much more difficult.

Realistically speaking, these factors would have improved his prey's chances of a successful escape. However, the Count would personally make sure that such a fate would never come to pass. For the moment he catches wind of the presence of those who were or still are associated with the now defunct Ottoman Empire, they almost became a priority for him to eradicate. They were pests, garbage that needed to be purged from existence, and only he was capable of accomplishing this monumental feat.

Drăcula observed the wilted, rotting plants that were situated strategically around the Withered Gardens, admiring their decayed foliage for what it was worth. Such a fitting reflection of the Vatican's own greens, which were chemically treated and cared for in the most artificial ways. Their gardens were as hollow and fake as their supposed faith in God, the hypocrites. The Count's lips twisted into a dark smirk as the topic crossed his thoughts, humored by the irony of it.

The harrowing screams of a victim in unspeakable agony echoed loudly throughout the Spirelands, causing the Count to let out a sigh of equanimity. Ah, that was truly music to his ears. Clearly, someone—or something—was well versed in the art of execution. Alas, the compliments had to end there, as the unfortunate soul's shrieking quickly died down before Drăcula was allowed to enjoy them any more. Oh well. It helped to ease up the tension he felt as he waited for his Nosferatu to come back.

"Hey pal!" There was virtually no room for silence to implant itself in the Count's ears as the voice of a sprightly woman emerged from behind his location. "Do you have a moment?" Staying true to his immovable personality, he maintained staggering rigidity in his stance as he felt a presence thrust itself onto his back, arms wrapped around his breast as if she had known the Count for all her life—a grave lapse of judgment on her part. "I'm looking for an Ottoman. He's been quite naughty, you see."

Drăcula's blood red eyes flickered with the flames of anger, spawned by the she-creature's complete disregard for personal space. Her chipper attitude was also annoying, but it was her total lack of preemptive respect that drew his ire first. Her uncivilized actions would have immediately warranted her a slow and painful death under most circumstances, but she was spared that fate by noting that she, too, was hunting an Ottoman for reasons entirely her own. Was it the same one that he had detected earlier?

As quickly as the insolent woman had flung herself onto his tall, unyielding body, Drăcula spun himself around powerfully while he wrenched his arms upward, using both the movements in his shoulders and the momentum he generated to try and fling the female being off of him, an action he was confident would have succeeded. He then latched onto several folds in his cape, pulling the mantle up to obscure the lower half of his face in classic vampire style.

"Your impudence urges me to punish you, harlot," Drăcula threatened, watching the she-demon's every move in preparation for her next course of action. Her choice of outfit was erratic and distasteful, both befitting of her discourteous ethics as well as her unsavory personality. "However, it seems you and I share a common target." He lowered his cape, revealing his frosty expression. "Remove yourself. It will only take a matter of moments before my Nosferatu capture the rat for me to dispose of properly."

[Alice the Chopper]

As soon as she jumped unto the Vampire Lord, Eris was flung off by his powerful motion. Even with her infernal strength, she couldn't hold onto the larger demon. Then again, it wasn't like she was really trying, either. The acrobatic demon rolled on the ground, breaking her fall and landing her on her stomach. Instead of getting up like a fuckin' normal person would, she bent her spine backwards, arching it like a bridge. It was quite a disturbing and impossible motion for most mortals - and demons alike. She adjusted herself with a few unnerving snaps and twists until she was in an upside down crab stance. By this time, Dracula had began speaking.

"So you can dispose of him properly?" The demon's bladed teeth shined in the red light of the Spirelands as she questions the Count. She grinned ever so widely, "So sure of their fate, and so full of hate." The demon's tone changed to a more pleasing voice, one that complimented her amateur rhymes. "Much blood He has shed, and for your dearest, they may of already lost their head." She grin vanished only for it to reappear not a second later, and larger than ever.

It appeared the show was over, as she sprung to her feet and cleared her throat, returning to her original tone, "But soon I'll fuckin' have his." Her back was currently turned to the impaler. Something about this demon was familiar. She attempted to think of who he was while gazing over the ruined gardens. Her attention turned to the black roses, a breed only found in Inferis, a 'gift' from Asmodeus. An Archdemon? No, that would be obvious, as they were her employers...for the most part. He obviously shared a similar hatred for the Ottoman people.

Wait a minute.

Going on nothing but a hunch, the pink eyed demon quickly turned around with a excited look on her face, "So, why ya want em' dead, anyway?" She asked in a slang filled accent of old Greek origin. She had to get more information out of him. If he failed to comply, this whole ordeal would get boring. And if it got boring, she would have to make it exciting again. That was always a messy affair.

[Vlad III Țepeș]

Lord Drăcula's upper lip trembled as he resisted the urge to sneer in reaction to the discordantly dressed she-demon twist and bend like an infernal contortionist, repositioning her body so that she now held herself in a crab-like posture. She mocked the vampire king with a childish rhyme, threatening that his Nosferatu servants were no match for this Ottoman demon, following up with a wicked smile, her shark-like teeth glistening in the dismal lighting of the Spirelands in perfect synchronicity with the taller demon's dark, foreboding eyes. Her grin lost intensity for nary a split second before reemerging on her face, bigger and more dangerous than before.

"But soon I'll fuckin' have his." The Count snorted quietly. This female demon was psychologically unstable, yet she made no attempts to hide it. Interestingly, the way she displayed herself and her rapidly fluctuating personality traits indicated that she may have actually embraced the mindset ruled by utter discord. After spending some time observing the black roses planted around the dying gardens, the mad devil-woman threw a question to the Count, throwing some kind of accent in her words, which Drăcula immediately judged to be filthy and disgusting by its very nature. "So, why ya want em' dead, anyway?"

"The Ottomans are wretched scum," the Count divulged with emphasis, swiveling on his heels so that he now exposed his own back to the smaller demon, his massive cape swirling at the base of his feet in a dance of black and red. "For as long as I could remember, they've threatened my way of life." He paused for a moment, closing his eyes as he took a breath of putrid, sulfuric air. On the exhale, his eyelids slowly parted open, his eyes now glazed over with rekindled rage. "It is merely natural that they be purged for inflicting such a crime against me."

Though his answer was spoken cryptically and in a manner quite a few would have branded as selfish, it was nevertheless the truth. For seven years, Lord Drăcula had combated the Ottoman Empire and struggled to remove their corrosive influence from his beloved homeland of Wallachia, and for five centuries more, he was forced to cling to those memories for as long as he roamed the lands of Inferis. He may have been a monster in his lifetime, but the horrible deeds he committed were done solely to protect Wallachia's best interests. Drăcula was an ideal candidate for the position of a well-intentioned extremist.

[NPC Demons]

"Likewise, t'is natural that we should have purged you, for your own transgressions, Țepeș," quipped the Poacher, seemingly having emerged from the shadows, from nowhere. Behind his armor, he smirked cruelly. It would serve Vlad right for impaling his grandfather, all those years ago, before he was even born. An Ottoman, he was, the very soldier they were searching for. Alas, as a man, he'd been nefarious for killing and selling hides in secret, and was put to death for it, but not before putting to death another special little someone, as a guard that fateful day. He grinned at the woman, having heard of her prowess as The Doppelganger long ago, from a friend of his whom she'd already smote. "And as for you, Iezabel..." A hollow, echoey, chuckle resounded within his helm, seemingly fixed to his head, unattachable. As it was. "Well, I killed you once before."

He was on a roll, and was quite a cocky little bugger for someone presented with two rather powerful demons, each the master of a weaker form of demon themselves, while he was a more Poacher. Though for a "mere" Poacher, he had a few tricks up his sleeves, as he grinned maliciously at the pair. Crouching slightly into a striking position, he drew not one, but two of the glaives renowned as the weapon of choice for a Poacher. This was truly a mark of skill and prowess; he had slain a fellow Poacher and taken his blade. The efficiency to wield both wasn't absent, for that matter, as well. Beneath his helm, he glared first to Vlad, then to Eris, examining them like one examines a pair of equally fine steaks, knowing that they may only choose one to start with. "Hmmm... Your fangs, your cape, hair... Your head alone could pay a pretty pound, actually... And as for you... Heh, stomach, brain... Nose may pay well. Heard Bill needed a new skin, yours will do sublimely"

With that, the Poacher gave a wild and gleeful cackle, ready his glaives, one to defend, one to counter-attack, should either of them strike first, and to otherwise simply be in an offensive position. This was going to be wonderful...

[Alice the Chopper]

""The Ottomans are wretched scum, With a fiery hate in the depths of his deep voice, the pale demon spoke. His mighty cape was seemingly one with the wind, bending and twisting in a flash of black and deep red. Yes, it was all coming together, just who this camp demon was. The grandiose Ottomon Empire did have a little trouble in Wallachia, as the Greek remembered. A certain warlord whose army had slayed thousands of the empire's finest soldiers and knights. "It is merely natural that they be purged for inflicting such a crime against me." It must be him, there was little doubt about it.

"Likewise, t'is natural that we should have purged you, for your own transgressions, Țepeș," Before Eris could say it herself, she heard a voice say the Imapler's surname. She quickly scanned the area to find the source of this almost mechanical sounding voice. It wasn't long before she found the source, a demon which she had never seen before. The cannibal demon licked her lips at the sight of this. New prey was always a delight. Eris smiled. "And as for you, Iezabel..." Just as soon as the smile appeared on her face, it dropped. She felt a tense shiver travel throughout her body as the Poacher said that seven lettered name.

"What." The demon commanded in a powerful tone, not asking, but demanding. She spoke in her original tongue with heavy Mediterranean accents. Her fists clenched, as did her razor like teeth.

The shapeshifter didn't bother to hear what he had to say next, and in fact interrupted his little spiel on how he wished to sell their organs or whatever. "What the fuck did you just say?" She commanded in her quite serious tone. With a stern walk, she came closer to the heavily armed opponent, with careless determination. The jester like demon was not gleeful as normal, not happy, and certainly wasn't joking. Her passionate eyes stared down the hollowed soul of the deceased Ottoman as she fell silent.

Or was she?

A wide grin slowly crept across her face in what seemed like minutes. Was he really that bad? Sure, she'd fucking stab him to death, but was what he did really that bad? He killed her. He killed Iezabel. If it wasn't for this glorious armored demon in front of her, she wouldn't of obtained true power. True perfection. The slender demon's grin broke into a maniacal laughter which wen ton for almost a whole minute, before she slapped her cheeks, speaking once more in a jovial tone, "Thank you for breaking my binds!" She screamed at the Poacher, louder than her laughter.

"Do you.." her speech was broken up by her laughter, which was getting difficult to control at this point. "Do you know the power of insanity?" Her laughter was slowly calming down to short clusters of chuckles. The doppelganger's pupils grew small as if they were nearly nonexistent as tears of 'joy' fell from her eyes. "You're just another fucking Ottoman!" There was suddenly a hint of violent anger in the demon's Infernal speech. "I've killed your friends! I've killed your family! Over and over and fucking over again!" Seven spiked bones stabbed through Eris' right forearm, making her entire arm a painful weapon. She needed no sigil and no magic word to use her apparatus, a rather rare feat to be witnessed.

"And they all screamed like whores!" The she dmeon said as she quickly flung her spiked forearm, detaching all seven of the sharp spikes by will. Being flung at a force that could toss around three hundred pounds, the projectiles quickly made it to a speed of sixty miles per hour as they loosely went in the Poacher's direction in a shotgun like blast. It would be hard to avoid all of these makeshift weapons, but not impossible if one was skilled enough.

[Vlad III Țepeș]

"Likewise, t'is natural that we should have purged you, for your own transgressions, Țepeș," The lord of vampires leisurely opened his eyes, unflinching in his posture while maintaining the distinctive aura that expressed his obvious lack of concern for those around him. Between closed lips, the Count gnashed his teeth against one another as if though he were grinding an invisible chunk of meat to a bloody pulp, for he could fluently decipher the filth that was being projected to him: Turkish. 

It would seem as though their target, interestingly enough, had found them.

A tall, slender sort of demon slinked into the light from within a shadowy pocket nearby, fully bedecked in armor dyed a cross between a stained dark purple and coal gray tones, carrying within both of its hands a set of identical twin glaives, both of them elaborately forged and sharpened to perfection. Closer inspection revealed splatters of blood caked against the metal, indicating to the Count that his Nosferatu had, indeed, been slain by this creature—as the flexible she-demon had predicted. Reminded of her, Drăcula turned to observe her reactions to the newcomer.

"And as for you, Iezabel..." His sanguine eyes glazed over with a burning, sadistic interest as the woman in jester's clothing visibly shuddered in revulsion at the mere mention of a feminine name, which the vampire immediately conclude was her identity. "Well, I killed you once before." He raised an eyebrow, his features rigid like stone. Most compelling, he thought to himself. It would appear that this glaive-wielding fool, undoubtedly the Ottoman the both of them were searching for, was the very cause for the she-demon's death while they were both still alive.

Drăcula's interest in the sudden turn of events had morphed from being merely sadistic to borderline fiendish. The Poacher rambled on the potential values each of his parts and possessions would net him, but the Count merely ignored him. Now, she, on the other hand, was far more interesting. This "Iezabel" figure's backlash had been far more positive, and vastly more unpredictable, than the Count had initially predicted it would be. Her inconsistent personality traits shifted quickly, fluctuating from barely-contained wrath, to unabashed elation, and then back to blistering rage within a span of seconds, all of which were interlaced with high-pitched laughter she had no intentions of trying to subdue on her own accord.

"You're just another fucking Ottoman!" Drăcula let off a mild scowl of disdain in response to her expletive outburst. What primitive language. Such a mouth would have been grounds for severe punishment during his time. Alas, the she-demon spoke the truth. Even in the afterlife, the thin demon before the duo was little more than just another number, a faceless existence among the masses. A mere statistic. "I've killed your friends! I've killed your family! Over and over and fucking over again!" The Count paid no mind to her excessive use of foul language as he beheld the activation of a strange ability, one that allowed the she-demon to literally will the emergence of seven, lengthy barbs fashioned from the bones within her own body, nearly enveloping the arm with which they sprouted from.

"And they all screamed like whores!" And, just like that, the psychotic clown waved her arm forward and loosed the spikes from the flesh they rested in, firing them at the Poacher as a cluster of arrow-like projectiles. He half expected one of them to make a sort of game out of the battle that was to ensue, but that never happened. As expected of a demon of his standing, Count Drăcula merely stood by and watched the scene unfold before him, visually absorbing every movement, action, and counteraction that was executed by these two demons in order to plan out a proper strategy.

The vampire's mental plan of action, naturally, had to start with the creature's weapons.

[NPC Demons]

"HAHAHAHA" The poacher threw its self into combat with what was almost wreckless  abandon, it's glaives held out before and behind it in a way the suggested more then a little training. But whats more the way he moved was with a form of predatory instinct that only trained killers possessed. His every movment was smooth and practiced, and as his blades spun before him blocking the income projectiles with an ease that bespoke years of fighting and defending against such attacks.  "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHA" His laugh went on and on, a never ending taunt meant to anger or destabilize those who fought it.  

Its cold calculating eyes locked on the female demon, a greedy smile coming to its face. Yes, her skin would do nicely... So would her bones... Her blood... Her very soul would sell for a very high price indeed... If his pupils could change to dollar signs they would have, instead they just dilated as he charged her, one blade striking high and the other sweeping at her legs. Both attacks where made with inhuman speed and strength, though they lacked grace and where rather obvious to anyone who had spent anytime fighting. "C'mon whore don't ya got any fight in ya!?!? Or are ya all bark and no bite?!" His eyes glanced away for a second and he jumped back after his attack and looked over to Vlad. "An don't you worry count! I haven't forgotten you... My ol' walking cash cow!"

[Alice the Chopper]

"HAHAHAHA!"

The metallic demon laughed as it dodged and blocked the sharp blades. typical, really, as Eris never really expected for her somewhat frail bones to pierce an armor in which she was unsure of it's properties. But she had to try it. Over-calculating meant order, and order sure was boring. It was that rude cousin at the party that nobody else wanted there, that guy who's favorite ice cream was vanilla, that guy who didn't like cheese. Yes, Order was all of those things and more, it was this poacher, this guy. Oh how she hated that guy. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHA!"

There it was with that damn laughing again! Did this guy think he was invited to party or something? Did he think he could dine with the most prestiged guests? What a fool he was to think that way. Perhaps he should be skinned alive, how ironic would that be! That...metal or whatever sure looked like it held some value. But what was value to a demon? Enough thinking, this hurts one's head.

The she-demon simply watched as her projectiles missed, only to be mocked by the apparently crazed demon again by it's sudden laughter fit. "What, lose your cool already? I'm not that funny!" The Mockingbird sung once more, shrugging off the psychological warfare. Even with this, she still knew that her bone manipulation simply wasn't going to cut it in this situation, and she wasn't exactly expecting any help from Dracula at this point in time.

The doppelganger was somewhat stuck. Instead of making a move, she braced for the next attack, which seemed to be a synchronized swing aiming to remove her limbs. As soon as she saw movement, her body began to morph into a considerably smaller size. Her humanoid body became like that of some sort of alien insect, crawling on four out of it's six limbs. It's brown carapace covered it's squishy and pathetic insides, and all in all, it looked like an over-sized cockroach.

This "cockroach" transformed right in the middle of the blades, the small opening, before landing on the lowest one and quickly jumping off. The creature that was formerly Eris scuttled away behind the lord of the vampire. Transforming back into her demon form behind his cape, it appeared as if one creature crawled behind him and another emerged.

In a prideful and somewhat sarcastic sounding shout, the shapeshifter yelled out at the Poacher, "Yeah that sure showed you didn't it!" With a playful giggle, her voice once more changed to a serious tone, whispering in Vlad's pointed ear. "You gonna help out, Dracs?" And just like that, she ended his observing phase for him, stepping him up to the plate as if he was the next batter in line.

[Vlad III Țepeș]

"HAHAHAHA!" The Poacher immediately broke into hysterical laughter as it lunged aggressively into the fray with its two glaives in tow, twirling one by the center of its shaft to deflect the clown demon's bone missiles while using the other one to slice and cut at the rest of them as they approached, striking them out of the air with expert timing and precision. Evidently, the Ottoman's hellish transformation did its technique some justice, but this was hardly enough to impress the stoic ruler of the Nosferatu, who devoted his entire life to mastering the spear and other pole-arm weapons. Even its howling cackles, a form of psychological warfare on its own, did nothing to intimidate or strike fear into his austere and blackened heart.

Watching the scene unfold from a distance, Lord Drăcula witnessed with half-open, apathetic ruby eyes as the armored creature charged in to deliver a perfectly synchronized combination attack with its dual glaives, aiming one for the busty harlequin's neck or torso in a horizontal slice, while aiming the other one at her legs with identical intentions, either to gash them wide open or to remove them from her body entirely. It was at this point that the she-demon chose to display a second ability that not only allowed her to respond to the incoming attack, which would have proven fatal had she acted a second too soon, but served to further deepen the Count's interest in her.

Moments before the Poacher's bloodied weapons were able to make contact with their target, the clown demon had morphed and twisted it buxom body into a more compact state, distorting its features until she had assumed an insect-like form. To be more precise, she had transformed into a Locust Spawn. Both of the Ottoman Poacher's pole-arms whizzed harmlessly over and under her newer, smaller form, taking the chance to skitter away from her adversary. Within seconds, the "Locust" beetled its way behind the Count, disappearing into his great mantle and transforming back into her true demon form in the blink of an eye before taunting the Poacher for its failed attack. "You gonna help out, Dracs?"

Drăcula snarled inwardly, manifesting that action by curling his upper lip in contempt for the shapeshifter's bold assumption. How dare she talk to him as if he were on even ground with her? Alas, there was a greater threat to deal with at present, and as much as he desired to destroy the harlequin demon, he was forced to channel his anger elsewhere. "Be mindful of who you speak to, changeling." he warned the she-demon as he glared back down at her with agitation glimmering within his blood red eyes.

With his veiled threat spoken and out of mind, the Count turned his icy gaze to the criminally insane Poacher, who had the gall to label him as his "walking cash cow". So, the fool believes that he can put a price on terror personified, does he? The vampire bared his fangs in an evil grin, his eyes swimming with its own brand of madness, an insanity that brewed and festered within his soul for over five centuries.

"You." Drăcula spoke in Turkish, expecting the glaive swinging maniac to understand his native tongue. "Tell me, Poacher. What name were you addressed by while you were alive?" The Count took several steps forward, his cape sliding against the smaller female demon's body until she was no longer hidden by it, allowing the breeze that rolled through the Spirelands to make it swirl and eddy once again. He tilted his head back slightly, staring at the Ottoman demon with eyes filled with absolute arrogance, second to none except the Devil himself. "I wonder, did your father serve in the Sultan's army of personal lapdogs? Or his father, even?" His cocky demeanor eventually transmogrified into a glare that was both deranged and threatening all at once. "I might have skewered one of them in my era." The vampire's slasher sneer intensified, the corners of his lips sharpening and widening as far as they could go until they could stretch no further. "And I'm absolutely certain that one of them screamed and begged for release, even as I watched them slowly die in front of my eyes."

The strongest of the Nosferatu eventually entered into a casual stride toward the armed and dangerous Poacher, taking his precious time as he slowly closed the distance between himself and his adversary; the demon with two glaives would have no trouble exploiting his lackadaisical approach, were it within his interests. The vampire lacked any armaments or protective apparel, and his opulent clothing were less than adequate enough to defend against a full assault from his bladed weapons. At first blush, Drăcula was entering a suicidal scenario.

"I am Count Vlad III Țepeș Drăcula," the vampire announced his full name as he halted his advance, now standing at an even distance between the jester she-demon and the greedy Poacher. As if exactly on cue with his introduction, his black and crimson cape flapped and spiraled at his feet as the wind picked up speed, his dreary white locks blowing in its direction. "And I will take the utmost pleasure of feasting on every last drop of your blood, just as I did with the rest of your allies."

[NPC Demons]

Ahhh, so little baby Iezabel thought herself clever, eh? Witty, she considered herself to be! HA! He uttered another snide laugh, relishing in her commentary. "Well, you sniveling waste of a soul, I think you're petty tricks are PRETTY HILARIOUS, if you ask me!" And he went in for his swinging, sweeping blows, only to discover, a moment too late, that she had another trick up her sleeve, shifting form into a bug. He derisively snorted, before laughing a harsh metallic chuckle, gleefully loud and shrill, compared to its ordinary tone. "My word, child; read a bit too much Kafka, have you?" The literary reference quite possibly passed her by, alas; she was but a fool, y'know? Or maybe it didn't, he didn't bother asking.

He watched as she darted under Dracula's cape, a roach, and arose again, somewhat human in appearance, her normal appearance, of course. "Showed me what? Cowardice, Greek? For that is all I've seen from you, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!~ COME AT ME, TRANSLYVANIAN!~ UNLESS YOU TOO FEAR ME?~" A bloody gleam of excitement would have shown from his eyes, were they visible. And of course, Draccy showed little fear in the face of adversity; he even had the gall to ask the Poacher's name! "I'd sooner die." As the count strode boldly forward, the Poacher, in turn, moved to meet him halfway.

"My grandfather, yes." As Vlad went on, intent on breaking the Poacher, the metallic demon merely chuckled, a sound like chains being rattled in the coldest of winter nights. Hollow. Unfeeling. Ghastly. "Did he now? Good, good... Good to know how YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, WAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!~" And thus came another mad surge of laughter. He lurched forward, as if to charge him, glaives extended to his sides, but after a mere moment, resumed a steady walking pace, laughing like a hatter in barely contained giggles, made all the more terrifying and intense by the hollowness of his voice. As if a knife were being drawn across a blackboard. Simply wretched.

And he grinned, inwardly, as Vlad announced his name and rank. Softly now, he spoke, "Oh yes, I know very much who you are. You'll fetch a pretty penny." And as Vlad ran at him, not missing a beat, he ran at the vampiric demon himself. "I'LL SKIN YOU ALIVE, YOU MOTHERLESS SON OF TEN FATHERS!~"

[Alice the Chopper]

"Be mindful of who you speak to, changeling." Eris scoffed at Dracula's statement, but nevertheless ceased to speak for the moment as the walking suit of armor began to speak once more, in his usual taunting manner. It was really strange to see an Ottoman in such a manner as they were traditionally a rather peaceful empire compared to others such as the Roman or Persian ones. Inferis must've of done something to his mentality, it was the single conclusion that the shapeshifter came to. This would likely mean he was going to fight relentlessly and to the death as he likely wasn't blessed with intelligent insanity as she was.

the lord of the vampires did not hesitate with his mocking call, instead calling him out with a single powerful word: "Sen." She couldn't understand it, but recognized the language, Turkish, the native language of the aforementioned empire. As he went on with his nonsensical rant (at least to her) she observed the metal man. The jester wondered if under this shell there hid a delicate flesh, which must be the case, right? This flesh...probably so tender and soft and juicy being perfectly preserved in that tin can. What did it taste like, she wondered, like chicken? Beef, perhaps? Pork would be fitting for such slime...but perhaps he tasted better than that. Perhaps he tasted like mortal. Now, human meat doesn't taste anything like they say, as fried poultry has a very different aroma and tenderness. No, mortal meat was so much more than that, it was not greasy, it was not crunchy, it had just the right amount of juiciness to it and had the most enticing scent when cooked. If there was any animal that it could be compared to, it would be that of lamb, though with a white meat. Eris' mouth watered profundly, causing her to wipe the saliva from her chin after being lost in this vivid thought.

By this point in time, the two beings were coming to a conclusion with their chattering. Seeing the vampire about ready to charge into combat, Mockingbird would swirl around him and come close to his ear in a silent manner, whispering a single sentence in a rather unnerving tone, "Make him bleed." A rather redundant statement, but she didn't know any better, not understanding the Impaler's taunt. However, it would at least instill a little encouragement, and maybe a little direction, as she actually did wish to collect a DNA sample from this demon. Perhaps then she could crush him at his own game.

For the time being, however, the violent demon would stand back and allow Dracula to display his abilities, observing the fight and looking for holes in the armor on both sides. just in case if the ottoman made an unexpected move and changed targets, the deceiver grew out a sword like spike from her right forearm, much thicker than the projectile like bones she had utilized earlier. It was nothing but a waiting game now.

[Vlad III Țepeș]

The strongest of the vampires retained his demented sneer, even as the Poacher deflected his verbal assaults one after another with machinegun speed. The armored Demon psychopath convulsed with maniacal laughter, indicating to the Count that he would be unable to break its cracked, fragile psyche any further than it already was. Did it receive some kind of training in its former life, solely to combat against mental interference? Or perhaps its rebirth into what it is now shattered its mind and soul beyond repair? Either way, the sheer sight of an enemy lost within the throes of madness was candy to his eyes and music to his ears.

As soon as the humanoid creature lurched into a forward charge, Drăcula's grin vanished instantly, returning to a neutral state as he ceased all movement on his part. Fear was completely absent within his eyes of scarlet color, and his very stance projected a powerful aura of defiance before the encroaching Demon, who brandished dual glaives as though they were extensions of its own arms. In fact, he expected the Poacher to have at him with reckless abandon; it would help the Count get a proper read on its fighting style, its movements, its modus operandi. And even though the Nosferatu Lord had no weapons on him, he could handle himself against a fully armed and armored opponent.

"Have at you, Ottoman scoundrel!" Drăcula taunted with a booming shout, his arms outstretched so that he deliberately exposed his soft, fleshy body for his adversary's assault. His mantle flapped wildly against the winds of the Spirelands, exaggerating his grandiose form and posture with its intimidating size and presence.

[NPC Demons]

The Poacher was caught off guard, he had expected the Vampire lord to continue his charge but the sudden stop was all but unexpected. And as the grin vanished from his would be preys face fear started to seep into his blackened soul at very last. This was the Lord Dracul, the son of the Dragon and lord of impalement. Centuries after his death, this creatures very name still brought on nightmarish images of pain. Yes, Vlad had left behind a legacy written in the blood of his enemies and it was a legacy that the living world wouldn't soon forget. Still, the Poacher didn't flatter knowing that to do so would be to show weakness and that was something he couldn't let happen. So one step after another he continued his head long rush at the demon lord.

"Have at you, Ottoman scoundrel!"

The Poachers eyes widened with glee and a low cackle rose in his throat as the Master Vampire opened him self up. Gone was his fear, gone was any thought of anything but the kill that was to come. After all, there was no possibility of a trap... Was there? The man was seemingly unarmed and unarmored and there for completely helpless against his forward rush. And like that he was on him and with a mighty yell he swung, the glave in his left hand swinging for his adversaries exposed gut. Today he would have a new scalp to add to his collection!

[Alice the Chopper]

Huh. So this fight was becoming a little less interesting to the jester like demon, who was at the point of Dracula's stopping and the armor's assault, was not paying attention to the unfolding events. No, she was instead admiring the gardens, perhaps the only natural thing in this blasted land. They were blackened with hate as is everything in Inferis, but had a glorious beauty to them, a most magnificent chaotic aura. The stems jutted in every which direction, the petals lacked symmetry, and simply no shade exactly matched. They couldn't. Because nature didn't grow in such a way, it grew as it willed, a will it could not possibly predict. Chaos.

Right, the fight. Blacked pupils lined by pink irises turned their attention towards the lord of the vampires, who had exposed himself for an attack. Lucifer, look at these two. Dracula's dress was quite the opposite of the lovely gardens, it was starch and clean, pressed and symmetrical, yes, it seemed that everything was in order. Well that's just disgusting, isn't it? A word would need to be had with him after this whole...mess, about his ideals on fashion. He surely needed a few pointers. Oh right, and then there's this asshole, clad in a suit of armor perhaps even more representative of the sin of order than young Vlad.

"Have at you, Ottoman scoundrel!

Oh right, right, right! The fight, that's what was important, not flowers or fashion, no it was stabbing and slashing time, one could forget that from time to time. Especially if there were bored. The horrific blade grew an inch longer as the Ottoman made his un-graceful coupe de grace attempt, though the shapeshifter did nothing to negate this, only stood and stared.

What did that vampire have planned?

[Vlad III Țepeș]

The lord of vampires centered his sights on the dual-wielding Poacher as he picked up on its movements with impressive accuracy, digesting this information during the heat of the moment he was now currently faced with. The Demon was attempting to swing one of its pole weapons toward his abdomen, it seemed. An amateur move from an equally amateur combatant—one that would certainly prove fatal for the armor-clad warrior. Blocking this maneuver would be no trouble for the Count; and now that he got to thinking of how to stop the blade from killing him, this very moment was the perfect opportunity to give his newest technique a proper test spin. The pale white Demon produced a fanged sneer once more.

Without budging a single inch from his where he stood, Drăcula merely raised his arm with a lightning fast motion, pushing an open hand toward the cutting edge of the Poacher's weapon until his bare palm stopped its advance altogether. However, he could not pull off his brand new ability without a bit of payment. Such was the price of equivalent exchange: relinquish something in return for another thing of identical value. In this case, blood for power. With a deadly squelch, the glaive's edge was able to slice into the Count's flesh upon colliding with his hand—and easily, at that—but it failed to chop it clear in half; in fact, only a third of his hand had been cut through.

It still hurt like living hell, though.

But the pain was a necessary element for this exchange to take place, and knowing such a reality made the demented vampire sneer harder as he pushed against the halberd with phenomenal physical strength; merely one of many benefits his species possessed. And with being the strongest of the Nosferatu, Drăcula had access to even more... benefits. "I sense fear in you, young Poacher." The vampire snarled subsonically, glaring into its hollow eye-holes with murderous intent. Rivers of crimson blood dripped down his ghostly flesh and trickled to the ground. "You doubt your power to destroy me. I take it you also assume myself to be defenseless?" His fingers tensed up as more pain seared through his arm, which he endured with his sadistic sneering. "It was my very tactical genius that made your swine of a Sultan flee my country."

A dangerous glower flickered deep inside Drăcula's bloody eyes as he, using his brute strength, threw off the weapon that continued to lacerate his hand before forming his fingers into a clenched position, as if he were grabbing air. Bolts of crimson Soul Energy had begun to collect itself into a rod-shaped form as the vampire made a sharp thrusting motion toward the Poacher's abdomen, the shimmering aura of energy shattering to reveal a deadly-looking weapon that drew most of its influence off of spears and other stabbing weapons. Both ends were shaped and jagged to appear as if though those ends were designed to latch onto flesh and muscle fibers as soon as it skewered someone, unable to be extracted without forced self-dismemberment.

In summary, it was small, but it could seriously wreck this Poacher's shit if it didn't back away fast enough. But even if it were avoided successfully, the Lord of the Nosferatu wouldn't have any of it; were such an attempt to be made, he would introduce his Ottoman-scented enemy to the secret function of his spear weapon: both ends could mechanically extend so that it could span three times its current length, and thus transform into a true spear of sorts. Of course, it also had the added effect of covering more distance as the pointed end he attempted to stab the armored foe with jetted out with a sharp, hydraulic CLUNK! Whether or not the Poacher was to face impalement at the hands of the Impaler depended on how fast he could react, or else it was curtains.

"You are weak, Ottoman. And I intend to remind you of your proper place." Drăcula threatened him in the Demonic tongue as his eyes flashed with a glint of bloodlust and malicious desire, a compulsive need to watch his foe suffer beneath his heel. And he would not rest nor cease his assault until he made that dream a reality.

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