Ayreg was sleeping fitfully, as he often did of late. Nightmares had begun to plague his dreams without remorse, and without fail. His head turned, and turned again. He made no noise, save the sound of steady breathing interrupted momentarily by more intense, stronger bursts of air or inhalations. The sound of the latch sliding free did not disturb him, nor the sound of gentle sniffs made over his topless form. His fists pumped, gripping and releasing in almost regular intervals, the sheets upon which he slept, and a cold sweat beaded down the side of his weathered face.


Another nightmare. He had grown so accustomed to these, it almost did not truly bother him anymore. No more did he bolt out of bed, sitting upright suddenly when he woke. Sometimes he did not wake at all.

This time, he did.

A parchement was laid across his chest, and he woke. It was a kind of sleepy waking, though, where the waker is not sure if he's still dreaming, or back in the real world. He did not move for a short time of many seconds, but the demons around him had suddenly vanished -- and not a minute too soon, by his recollection, having just seen the smirking face of Talomar Longden in his dream standing over him like a triumphant victor.

As his eyes opened weakly, he became aware of his environment. The coarse feel of paper was there on his chest, and... a figure ...was moving in his room, poking through drawers and glancing over his suit of clockwork armor the gnomes had helped him construct in the forges. It was hard to be sure exactly who, or even what, this figure was. Like shadows on shadows. Merely a darker form amongst the dark. The runeblade was behind his bed, just within reach, and he siezed it into his grip.
_____

Room 12 was much like any of the other rooms in structure, and form. The walls were well-built, if not of the finest cut of wood. The glass in the window was clean enough save perhaps only for the thinnest film of dust covering its surface. There was the bed, and the stand beside it. A candle set in a brass candlestick, the vestiges of melted wax hanging from its lip like drops of water frozen in time.

There was a table to one end of the room, opposite the bed, and a chair hung out askew from it. It had the appearance of someone having just stood from it, and neglecting to push it back. Slung over the back of the chair was a dark-colored shirt -- it may have been black, or perhaps a considerably dark shade of gray -- with drawstrings instead of buttons, and a high-collared black coat with silver scrollwork up the sleeves. She would have recognized it, of course, as being Ayreg's.

To the side of the room was a small dresser. Drawers opened revealed two more high-collared coats, one with silver scroll-work and the other rather plain. Both were well-made, much like the one slung over the back of the chair. Another drawer reveals several shirts of various colors, though all were dark. One might have been a rather dark green. The last drawer was filled with identical pairs of black breeches -- six in all, and all with drawstrings in the front and down the legs.

The room was without decoration. Indeed, it was a soldier's room; soldiers had no need of luxury. One could even go so far as to call the room `spartan.`

A rack had been set up in the corner opposite the table, down from the bed. The primary piece on display was the machined clockwork platemail the gnomes had helped Ayreg create. Smooth lines and etchwork marked the black-enameled suit of armor. It almost looked normal, save for the the edging trail of servos that could be seen through the empty gorget of the armor, and a curious device that might have looked like a blowhole constructed just underneath the left pauldron.

Beside the machined half-plate hung a suit of blackened alloy mail. It was unimpressive, save for its color. Clearly it had been left in a slowfurnace for a great deal of time to soak up enough carbon to get that color. A set of black-enameled bracers hung from hooks just to the flank of the clockwork armor.

On the table itself was an inkwell, closed with a cork stopper, and a small quill pen. It was dry, and had the look of being cleaned recently, with a few striations of water remained on the tip to identify that fact.
_____

Sliding out of bed, bare feet made no noise against the hard wood of the floor as he stalked toward this mysterious figure seemingly hunched over his writing table.
_____

The parchment that lay beside the inkwell was the primary focus of anyone looking at the table, though. When she leaned down to read it, she could see Ayreg himself had a rather fluid script, but a funny way of writing long letters. "I"s and "J"s and "F"s had strong, downward-slashing broad strokes compared to many other, smaller letters.


Lady De`Seis,

I regret that it has been so long since we last communicated. I understand your operations were going quite well in Iksindrum the last time I was there. Of course, that depends entirely upon one's point of view, though. I dislike speaking with you for any regular period of time, so I will make myself plain and attempt to use small words:

I have established myself in Rhy'Din City, some hundred leagues south of your last known location. I write not for pleasantries, but in a minor request of assistance. If you have any contacts in Malfeas, do inform them that

Her reading was interrupted by the cold feel of a runeblade setting down onto her shoulder with a light tap. It was hard to see, but perhaps just enough moonlight entered the room through the open window to make out her form in the darkness.

"Slowly turn." The cold, sandpaper-like voice of Jodiah was unmistakable, even in the dark. He stood behind her naked save only for his breeches, a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand, and the runeblade in the other.

It was a soldier's room.. and soldiers sleep very lightly.

Not five hours past, he spoke with her last.

Not five hours past, he demanded to know why she had been tormenting him.

Not five hours past, he wanted to know why she haunted his dreams.

Not five hours past, he questioned why she flaunted herself in front of him.

Not five hours past, he had leered at her again, in her salacious outfits.

Not five hours past, he had made her cry.

Not five hours past, she had said how much she hated him.

Well, that was fine. He had no great love for her, either. He did not trust her as far as he could throw her, and half the time he wanted to split her skull open with a rock. Or maybe push her out a window. No matter his personal feelings for her, though, his body burned to know hers.

Self-control was one of the things Ayreg prided himself on. He did not fall prey to his baser instincts very often. It was... almost disturbing.

Now she was in his room. Again. He stared at her as she spoke, his narrow eyes squinting as the faint glow of moonlight reflected off her alabaster flesh exposed by her nightgown. She had worn something similar before, on midwinter's night. His arm quivered, though not from the weight of his runeblade. Razor edge of the blade was now against her neck, and it scraped away just slightly at the outermost layer of skin. Not enough to slice the skin, though just enough to draw the faintest hint of blood to the surface. A very tiny droplette oozed down the edge of his blade, clinging to the length of steel despite gravity's pull.

After several terse seconds he withdrew the sword, and closed the arm's length of distance to her. Jodiah's hand snaked around the back of her neck to grab a fist full of long, flowing auburn hair, and he wrenched her neck back fiercely.

His voice was as hard as a rock, and his face was about the same way, a matter of inches away from her. "This is no dream. Why are you here, woman? Come to make me gnash my teeth in agony for you again!?"

A general had to determine an enemy's disposition before, during, and immediately following any battle. Careful study of a culture's community, their language, their history, and even their art could speak volumes as to how they might behave in battle. Knowing whether an attack on one's flank was a diversion, or a primary thrust, kept armies on the march and generals alive. Knowing the difference lay in having the wisdom to pay attention to details.

"I came only to tell you that I have made a deposit at the bank for you in payment for that sword," she said and brought her hands up over the blade. He sneered, pulling it away and grounded it into the wooden floor by his bare feet.

"Please, let me go. I am with his child,"

How exactly a vampire can concieve life was beyond his understanding, but perhaps all things were possible within the reach of The Nexus. He did not question it, merely noted her posture. It took more than tears to be weeping, and Jodiah Ayreg had an eye for details after all.

If she were telling the truth, then a quick thrust to her belly would surely end the spawn of Longden. He had no ethical qualms of destroying life before it started, and he had the necessary personal resources now to challenge the Count afterward, and perhaps even stand victorious. How satisfying it would be to see the Count brought low at his feet, humbled as he himself was humbled so many weeks ago.

Kill him? Perhaps. All things turn to dust in the fullness of time. Even the immortals can be destroyed when disease or injury is applied in great enough doses. If killing the Count became necessary, then perhaps he would have to make that stroke of his runeblade. No, Ayreg merely wanted the Count humbled. To continue to exist in the eyes of those who swore themselves to him, and all with the knowledge that Jodiah Ayreg was the one who brought the Count to his knees... that would be most satisfying.

He blinked. Jodiah had found himself lapsing into thought quite often lately -- he blamed it on his advancing age -- and he dismissed the ideas of his vengeance upon Longden to deal with the matter at hand. From her side, Tara would just have seen Ayreg staring at her for several seconds. With any luck, perhaps she might mistake his wandering thoughts to be a malicious mind calculating whether or not to destroy her.

It could only serve to help his image, he mused.

"Bloody, flaming females" he growled, releasing her as roughly as when he grabbed her. Her body language spoke volumes about the honesty she was giving him at the moment, and he wondered if she was even with child or not. He turned, sweeping the runeblade back up to rest upon his shoulder, his fingers draped lazily over the crossbar of the hilt. He took a few steps away from her. Even wearing nothing but breeches and his own corded, wiry muscles, the battle-scarred-and-battered body of the death knight looked like a coiled spring ready to explode.

Gray hair not withstanding.

"So tell me, woman, why could that not have possibly waited until the morning? Hm? What secret treasure does my writing desk hold for you that even a note slid under the door would not have sufficed in this ungodly hour?"

His eyes raked downward to the parchment crumpled into his hand. She had laid that on him before she began to stalk about his room. Perhaps he should read it?

"Because I sleep during the day, that's why," she said in her smartass way and crossed her arms over her chest. The girl-child -- no.. he did see her as a woman. Flighty at times, and precocious, but a woman nontheless -- across from him looked uneasy, now -- shy, almost. It was most unusual coming from Tara. This, the same person that offered her body so willingly to him the first night they met. He thought her odd, then, and torturous later, but he was almost downright confused now by her actions now. Setting his runeblade beside the bed, he turned and looked back to her, crossing his own arms over his chest.

The (zAB) burn scar on his chest peaking just over the crest of his corded forearm.

"And anyway, I know that you and Talomar are eager to commence with yer visit to the Shadowlands so I thought I would let you know that all yer work was not wasted," she said and gestured to the paper. She seemed to be stalling for time, and utterly more relaxed now. Gone were the tears from merely seconds before. A wicked curve of his lips, and he had made his decision over her pleading her belly.

"Show that to the bank manager and you will have access to the twenty-five hundred silver coins I deposited there. It's a claim ticket. They're doing that, nowadays," she said and made a face.

Ayreg nodded, faintly, and set the parchment aside. "Yes, they are known as letters-of-rights. They are most useful for long trips, where coins from different realms have different weight of gold, and silver, so the local bankers will deal you coin of the locals."

His arms dropped and he walked toward her again. She seemed to think she could change the subject so easily.. Stopping a few paces away from her, he sneered. "But that does not explain why you were snooping through my effects. I would suggest you do that." his lips curled again, "Quickly."

"After Talomar had his way with me, I couldn't sleep, so I decided to come here and keep myself occupied," she said with a slow smile and then added softly, "just to pass the time. Yer effects were really not all that interesting though."

Ayreg felt like a bird that had just been drenched in water. You know the kind -- feathers ruffling to shake themselves dry, and looking rather miserable the whole time.

He shook his head, a hand raised to her face. Fingertips glided smoothly down the woman's jawline and he smirked.

"I'm almost surprised I wasn't awoken with your pretty little fangs tearing into my throat, then. Breaking and entering for sport. I like your style, woman."

"There are safer places to pass the time, though."

His hand jerks back to avoid the fangs, and his lips twitch. A kind of smirk. He almost appeared to actually be having.. fun.

"Don't touch me!" she barked and her eyes widened considerably. The eyes widening spoke volumes of her mental state, and his smirk deepened.

"I don't feed off old, feeble men," she said and upturned her snout, high and mighty for the moment.

An insult. How avant guard. What to do, what to do?

In the end, her upturned nose became a fantastic target for his firmly gripping hand. The death knight moved far more quickly than one might imagine someone his apparent age capable of, but the arthritis was only in his knee. Fingers splayed across her face, he leaned close to her ear. His voice was soft, but stern.. if not cold. "Then I guess we will find out who is not so feeble, mhm?"

"I was teasing, Jodiah," she said in that sweet voice.

"Yes.." he said, slowly, his finger sliding under the thin strap of her nightgown atop alabaster shoulder. "As you have been doing for some time.. woman."

Jodiah blinked as she stormed out. It was.. abrupt, to say the least.

"Take care in the Shadowlands and see that no harm comes to my Talomar or I will be back."

SLAM!

"And it won't be pretty."

Now that was a neat trick.

But at least she was gone now. Whew.

He sniffed once, rubbing his eyes. He looked at the letter-of-rights she left for him, folded it, and slid it under a drawer built onto the underside of his writing desk. He'd have to go out in the morning to find a banker to cash it out.

He walked back across the room and crawled into bed. It was good that Tara was showing him her spine. He liked to cultivate strength in those around him. Having a pound of lapdogs drooling at your feet was boring, at the best of times. Strong women were Jodiah Ayreg's personal tastes, and even if Tara would never see the inside of his blankets on her own merits, he would like to see her become a strong woman.

Talomar Longden did not deserve her, if he squashed her spirit under his thumb.

Be that as it may, Ayreg wrapped himself up in his blankets. He was surprised she stayed as long as she did -- he had given her every reason to leave save throwing her out by the scruff of her neck. Now, with a long, lingering sigh of relief to be back in his bed, Jodiah Ayreg fell readily to sleep.