The Dark Mage and the Lady of Darkness meet

Two blue eyes opened. Atarah woke from her slumber, thoughts she has no need for it for she never becomes sleepy however being in her bedchamber meant quiet and solitude; the two ingredients that settled her mind, gave her the clarity arrange her thoughts. Besides, she preferred to sleep her way through boring or annoying days, or nights, instead of suffering through them. Atarah moved upright, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She stayed there for a minute, looking around her room. It was pitch black, for the human but she had no human eyes. Hers were those of the beast; like a cat although they looked human enough, except for the radiating faint glow that they seemed to have. She has been at Errings Rising for weeks and had done nothing about her room. It was near empty and the granite walls were bare, it even made her feel cold albeit her not feeling warmth nor cold. Her senses deprived by her transformation from human to inhuman, not into a beast but in something that eclipsed mankind; Atarah is an Estrië, a type of higher vampire. She can mould her appearances like a skilled craftsman into different people, beast and demon. She has become stronger, faster and smarter even. Some of her senses such as touched and tasted dulled, but others became exceptional such as her sight and hearing. She has no need for sleep, drink or food like ordinary humans, although she does have an insatiable desire for blood. She stepped out of her bed, her slender legs brought her to her closet, scarcely filled to her regret. She picked her black and crimson dress with a gilded gorget and black leggings. Around her feet, she would ware gilded high heels. Twisted serpents of gold laid next to her washbasin, there she donned them and brushed her silvery hair for a good while; Atarah being her narcissistic self loves to see her alluring appearance reflected in a mirror.  The Estrië stood up, took one last glance in the mirror and walked out of her chambers.  “Good morning, your grace,” said two raucous voices in sync, they resonated from the hollow of two knight helmets. The sugarloaf helmets swivelled to face her; they were black and decorated with gold, a black cowl hid most of the helmets except the front and was topped off by a golden crown. In the void behind, the v-shaped eyelids danced two faint blue lights as fireflies. The knights were ghastly but unlike the dark and evil knights from tales and fable who garb their antagonists in rusty mail and plate with tattered coats and cloaks. These were clad in shiny black plate armour and mail, decorated with gold. The surcoat pristine, one half was black, and the other side was black and covered in golden lines that formed lozenge; embryoid upon the chest was a black shield with a golden rim, within it a blazing sun of pale gold. The knight held a broad two-handed sword in its hands, the rounded tip resting upon the stone tiles; it was the sword of an executioner. “You have been requested to assist a guildmember with an assignment,” came from one of the helmets, “Dahau is in Rose Garden.” It let go of his sword with its left hand, grabbing a piece of paper that was stuffed behind its belt and offered it to its master. Atarah snatched it from the gloved hand and read the message. She tore the parchment in half and dropped the pieces; on the ground, they combusted in flames. ”They ought to know that thiss iss beneath me,” she spewed out and then walked away, her knights following her.

She sat at a table, in the corner of the dining room. Her knights stood at her table, with their back turned to her; vigilant to any who wished to bring harm upon her, even within the guild. A plate, spattered with a red substance and tiny bones, stood before her on the table. A glass filled with crimson fluid was in Atarah’s hand, she moved the contents around. The paper did mention a handsome reward, money she could use to refurbish her room and stock her closet. She was not a princess anymore, or a queen, who would get anything she desired; she had to get it herself now. She set her glass back on the wooden table, staring at it for a while, pondering. Her right-hand circling, gesturing, the blood in her glass started to raise and dance.  She sighed, and stood up; the blood came splashing down, most of it spilt on the table. Atarah walked away from the table, the tapping of her heels followed her with every hasty step she made; echoed by the rhythmic of clanking steel of her knight's armour. In the hallway, she stopped and faced a wall. She drove her long red nails of her right hand within the flat of her hand. Her blood trickled out of hit, dripped from her wrist; she licked wrist, savouring the sweet taste that danced upon her tongue. She whispered some sort of chant, in a voice that did not sound like hers, in a language that was not of her own. A flaming portal opened up on the wall and Atarah was about to step through it. ”dismissed,” she said flat and stepped through the portal which shut behind her.  

The vampire emerged from another fiery portal at a different time in a different place. The place was Rose Garden and she wandered out to meet this Dahau. a dark mage of whom she had heard rumours and whispers but only vaguely remembered those, as she has not been too interested in any chatter from her guild members. Mostly spending her time in the dead of solitude, surrounded by the swirl of life that were her guildmates.