Witch Hunt

It is a shame the corpse is not fresh.

That is its first thought, upon waking to violent delights anew. The clammy thing laid out across the floor is no recent kill, or its blood might still run hot enough to fill its aching stomach with.

No matter. The jostling door promises new prey soon. Tonight it will feast on a banquet of carnage. It has been denied long enough.

Its head buzzes with excitement at the susurrus beyond the threshold. It gathers its claws, and drinks in the dark, pulling it like tentacles at its back. And it crouches low, dragging the energy forward in a sprinters pose, coiling itself to spring.

The door slams open to three dead men. Not that they know it yet. They wear fancy suits, already dressed for their funerals.

It launches itself forward, catching them by surprise. Its claws dig deep into the front man's stomach, slashed open to expose the ruby insides. He falls to his knees, screaming. Music to its ears.

The dagger-point tentacles separate into lancing spears, enervating the other two, pulling strength with blackened shadow to interrupt them mid-weapon draw. They cough like the wind was knocked from their lungs, stumbling backwards into the hall. One falls against the opposite wall, the other catches himself.

"The fuck?!", the upright one yells at the dark. His weakened arm paws pitifully toward his holstered blade.

It closes the distance, his sword only half-drawn from the scabbard, as it rakes its claws across the soft flesh of his neck. Vital ichor gushes from the wound, and it wastes no time lapping up the blood. Its fangs dig and explore into the laceration, like a straw in a river, and it nearly loses itself to the sweet, metallic taste.

The remaining man is too raucous in his recovery. He might have had a chance to run, otherwise. Instead, the monster spins on a dime, pulling the blood bag's sword the rest of the way free from the holster, and its jabs the thin blade into the third fool's stomach.

As the man expires at the tip of the sword, it has a thought. Its first, in a very long time. When it pulls free its new rapier, the man exsanguinates, every ounce pulled through and out the fatal wound. The blood sticks to the estoc's sharp edges, waves of crimson evaporating into pulsing, glowing red force. Blood magic may be a waste of good sustenance, but it suspects it will need the upper hand.

Besides, there is plenty more to go around. It returns to its meal, draining dry the other two smart-dressed men, the unlucky disemboweled still howling in anguish right up to the last drop.

As it pulls away from its bounty, trails of sanguine rolling down the sides of its mouth, it considers its surroundings. A hallway, labelled doors either side, bending 90 degrees either direction. There are far too many lights, and it must shield its eyes from the fluorescence. It will have to rely on blood and skill, for this hunt.

It seems there is plenty of the former to go around, at least. It focuses, listening in, sniffing the air to catch scent of the living. There are more here; much more. This building is full of waiting souls to rend; it is a tomb, and it has invited the reaper inside.

The monster walks up the walls, and onto the ceiling, where it crouches low as it moves. Crawling upside-down, it scouts the rest of this floor. No other souls of immediate interest. A stairwell leads down, where it can sense there are more yet to sunder. It crawls over the upper threshold, along the walls of the staircase, and back upon the ceiling of the next floor down.

Already there is promise; it hears shouting ahead. Turning the corner, it catches sight of two more well-suited individuals, sleek crossbows of metal stock in their hands, and scent dripping with cologne. A man and a woman, backs to the wall either side a closed room.

"The tall one's fuckin' loose? Knew we shoulda just killed 'em", says the woman.

The man nods. "Too late now. But we can still hold these two for ransom, get 'er to surrender."

"Fuck surrender. Got half a mind to put some bolts through 'em right now."

Humans are such distractable things. Imperceptive. It reaches out with the sword, and the blood magic enervating off the end shoots forward in a strand of red, piercing into the river of the man's veins. The magic seizes the current, a widdershins flow of its own intent. He locks up, held in place.

The woman backs up in a panic. It crawls at speed behind her, and drops down from the ceiling. With its other hand, it claws her apart, torn from the momentum of its fall, shredded to pieces. Still as a statue, the man's locked eyes issue a silent scream. He is as short work as his comrade.

It drinks once more from the fallen, each foe giving it more to think about. How is it that it ended up here, at all? Who are these foes, so foolish to have let the devil in? Something to ponder.

There is movement beyond the door, it can hear. More to kill. It tries the handle; no lock or obstruction to stop it. Stepping inside, it sees a room not unlike the one it awoke in; almost maddeningly identical, in fact. Save for the replacement of one corpse for two lives. Two strange entities of green and blue-white skin, one dressed in a manner not unlike the paltry mob it has slain so far save for the metal armor overtop, and the other in a blue dress and cap. They pull ropes from off their forms, untying themselves in a panicked hurry.

The women look to each other at their new guest, still half-bound to chair legs when the monster arrives. They recognize the danger. Excellent.

"Roodie...?", says the shorter one. It tilts its head.

Still tied, they are almost too easy prey. Almost.

It rushes forward to slice them apart, blade raised to cut them to bloody ribbons-

"SOLUS LUXUM!", the armored one yells.

A blast of sunlight strikes the monster, throwing it backwards and out the door like a tossed rag. It slams into the opposite door, something cracking as it collides, and it is not sure whether it or the wood broke. The familiar pain issues a furious hiss, as its skin peels, its blood boils. The light hanging in the middle of the room, an impossible and blessed simulacra of the sun, threatens to turn it to ash. It crawls across the carpeted floor, declawed fingers digging into the ground. Finally it is away from the spilling light, round enough of a corner to pull itself back together, though it is slower going under the electrical lights.

The shadow of the armored woman blocks the light in partial, before the door slams closed. Sunlight still spills from under the bottom crack. It wheezes at the burning pain under its skin, feeling the cool air against its exposed and melted flesh, slowly knitting back together.

Shouting from further down the hallway and furious boot stomps of multiple assailants spells danger. Injured by the cheap trick of the dawn-bringing warrior, it may sustain too many injuries to continue its hunt. Retreat. It seethes at the inevitable thought, but acquiesces. It has learned its lesson; there will be more.

It hears a dinging sound behind it. Next to the stairwell, a metal door slides open. Two individuals in the small, black wooden box of an elevator cab. A young man in a red bellhop getup stands with a start from his seated position, and next to him, a man in a vest, already going for his sword at the sight of the beast.

The bellhop makes the smart decision, and runs into the adjacent stairwell. It considers chasing the weaker prey, but decides against. The other stands his ground, looking to march forward, and will make himself an annoyance if it turns its back to him. The monster pulls itself to its feet, rushing to meet the man.

He holds his sword out in defiance. He believes it will fight fair. Adorable. As it approaches, it runs up the wall, slashing with the blood-empowered blade to knock the weak-gripped man's weapon from his hands. It lands on its duelist-hopeful with a pounce, skidding back into the elevator cart. The blade tip plunges into his chest, stopping just before the heart so that it might drink in these blissful final moments.

The shouting and footfalls grow louder. It looks back to see three more suited men and women sprinting down the hall, crossbows at the ready. It twists itself around the man, pulling him up to serve as a shield, and excavates its sloughing mind to remember how these contraptions work. Right, the door. It pulls the grated door closed, as the front two of the tragic excuses for warriors aim their crossbows toward the beast. One even lets loose an errant bolt that clings off the side of the closing metal. The other readies to volley, as the third starts to weave a spell through the air, magic crystallizing at the tip of a staff.

As they pass by the hotel room it so frantically scrambled away from, the door opens once again, bathing the horde in golden light.

And then a massive boom rocks the building, as a colossal burst of fire passes from the room, into the hallway, and collides with the swarm. The three assailants are incinerated, and the hallway ignites in instant flame.

It shuts the door, and clicks the button to the lobby. The heat already rises, and the crackling inferno licks at its ears, but the last thing it hears before the descent is an exuberant voice screaming at the top of her lungs, "FIREBALL, BITCHES!"

* * *

There are screaming sounds along every floor it passes. It revels in the chaos, a soothing cacophony to ease its long, escaped solitude. Finally, it is unleashed.

This hotel, which it can now ascertain is what this is, is full to brim of fearful souls. Its residents will flood into the lobby, fleeing like rats jumping from a sinking ship. Straight into its soon-awaiting fangs.

It stabs at the light hanging above its head, glass shattering around it, to darken the elevator cab and speed its healing along. Further sped by its drinking dry of the would-be duelist. Soon, the slaughter begins again. But for now, there is not to do but think.

Think.

In all its hunts since it awoke that glorious night some weeks ago, it has had little time to think. Each night, it had been bound to return once satiated, lest it overhunt and far-extend its hand, disturbing its prey populace. Careful and precise in its pickings, often even holding back from the killing blow, if it believed it might feed again.

But it is away, far, far away from its place of return, now. It is unbound, unmoored, and free to act with impunity, to brutalize and contemplate in equal measure. It wonders, why now? It wishes it knew.

It can't remember when it last wished for anything, beyond blood. That is its purpose, after all. The purest form of slaughter. Or at least, so it thought, if what it had done before could be considered thinking. But surely there must be some mistake, some oversight in the halls of the damned. That can't be all It is.

There lies the rub. It has not yet claimed itself. Surely, it is not a mindless hunter at all. It is not wild and untamed. It is an animal, but now it feels the length of the chain. It has done admirable work without the guiding light of purpose, but now it is time to... It snarls. The thread of thought evaporates into the air around it. What is it? It clutches at its forehead.

Too many long years under lock and key. The dregs of itself beat against the walls of its cell for decades, and on occasion, broke free. But never for so long. It does not know when it will again. It must assert what it is, before the opportunity is lost to it.

Perhaps it should piece together the facts. It is not so paltry as a mortal, this is to be certain. It is vampiric, but that is an insult to its totality. Vampirism is the edge of the blade that makes it so dangerous, but it is not simply a creature of hunger. The driving appetite is the means, but not the end. It was conjured forth for a purpose.

But what is its purpose? What is it capable of?

Therein lies the answer. It is its aptitude. It is impetus incarnate. It is not a hunter, it is the Hunt. It is not violent, it is Violence. It is not bloodthirsty, it is Bloodthirst.

It is not frightful, it is Fear itself.

There. That's the one. Finally, finally, it breathes new life upon itself. What wretched creature would require a mirror, when it can look upon itself so clearly now. It stabs the husked corpse in delight. Anointed anew, Fear walks the waking world.

It has acted so selfishly, but the time has come to cast off the senseless glory killings. It will always starve; that is but the clarion call that coaxes it from its cocoon. But freed, and fed, Fear must now act with the decorum expected of its new and bloody namesake. Every kill must send a ripple of terror across peace's calm waters. Remind the masses of their fragile lives. It is time to don its terrible mantle.

Fear will strike them through the heart. It will teach them true horror, and show the world that not a single soul is safe.

The elevator slows, descending to its final stop. If its foes are clever, they'll have prepared an ambush. The poor fools.

Fear leaps onto the ceiling, and gathers the shadows of the cab. The elevator clatters and rolls to a stop. It waits, patient. A spider web of wicked intent drawing them in.

A voice calls, "If you're in there, we got the elevator surrounded. Get your hands up and we won't shoot ya." Seconds pass, a beat of silence. "Tough guy, 'eh? Alright, suit yourself. Open 'er up."

The metal door rattles open, and without warning, bolts and arrows fly after the light, plinking and clanging into the inside of the empty cart. Too early, little roughs. Now they must replenish. It won't give them the chance.

The beast darts to the ground, unleashing its light-vanquished shadow in a short and quick burst. Five men stumble backwards, knocked off balance from the blow of magic. Fear slashes in a wide and vicious arc at the closest, dispatching him with ease. It moves with the grace of a fencer as it spins around, and a sickly line of blood sticks into the backliner from the tip of the sword as he tries to flee.

The held man falls onto his face, causing his ally to trip over his prone form. With the two indisposed on the ground it withdraws the spear of blood. The other two surround it, but their numbers mean nothing. Their morale has collapsed, and they have let horror into their heart. It will be their death knell. One swings a clumsy sword toward the monster, and it parries, the rippling arcana forcefully rending the weapon from his hands. The other, behind it, grunts in effort as he tries to stab Fear in the back. Fear darts to one side, letting the oaf skewer his own comrade through the stomach.

While he's distracted pulling his weapon free from his friend's insides, Fear darts back to dispatch the two tipped-over men. They start to stand to their feet. Not fast enough. It scores precise and lethal strikes over the vital veins, leaving them no time to defend. It moves on. Fear has shed the mantle of monster and adopted the role of a ruthless and efficient killer. Bolstered by its feast, it moves with unnatural alacrity back to the unwitting betrayer, and sinks its fangs into his neck, pulling him into the dark of the elevator to feed.

It has left these men slashed to pieces. None were a match, but there will be more.

The hallway opens to a balcony over a large foyer. The lobby of the hotel, it would surmise. The grand entrance is adorned in ostentatious decoration, chandeliers of immaculate glass like lotus flowers, and a shining floor of linoleum, patterned in checkerboard beige and red. Crowds of screaming pedestrians make for the white-gold doors.

More of the suited assailants rush up a grand staircase, waving crossbows. Fear darts along the walls, dodging their fired volley. It gathers a flood of sanguine from the fallen foes, drawn from the wounds it inflicted, and washes the duo of arbalests over the railing in a great bloody wave.

The balcony wraps around an inside wall, meeting a parallel hall at the other end. Presumably more rooms, perhaps even a second elevator, await. From this vantage, more ruffians take aim, peeking out from cover to fire.

A bolt sails past Fear's head. It vaults over the side of the railing, kicking its feet around to the bottom of the balcony, and runs along the underside. From its upside-down vantage, it again eyes the crowd rushing for the exit. Before, it would have savored the chance to dine on such a feast. Now, it knows better. They are already so very afraid.

Somersaulting from the bottom of the rail back over the top, feet hooked between the balusters, it comes face to face with a curious crossbowman, peaking over the side and unleashing an unlucky shot. The last thing he sees is the tip of Fear's blade, as it skewers him through the forehead. The last assailant takes aim, but the arrow only pierces through her ally's corpse, wielded now by Fear like a shield.

Fear dashes forward, low, and swings up to deliver a near-fatal midsection gash. It is clear that this is no warrior clan. Their inexperienced and sloppy fighting styles and lack of discipline mark them cowards. Its natural, if unrewarding, prey.

It requires something of this one before she dies. It grabs her expiring form by the shirt collar. Liquid shadow and blood coat its face, creating a mask of terror that exaggerates its features. It unhinges its jaw. "YOUR... COMMANDER... WHERE?"

She looks up, eyes wide and lips stuttering around the words. She sputters and hyperventilates, but casts a single shaking finger past Fear. Its eyes follow her trembling directions to an open set of colossal double doors at the side of the lobby, leading into the eating space of a restaurant, white tablecloths and glass reflecting yellow light from their stacked and spilled places over the floor.

It focuses on the sounds spilling from the eatery, a bizarre whirring ring in the air. Without another look, Fear stabs backwards at its victim, a quick and final jab through the heart. It bounds across the balcony; it has somewhere to be.

But as it moves down the steps, a flurry of movement darts around the corner from the eatery. Another suited woman, eyes of glowing green, pulls herself against the wall in cover.

She looks from the scene she left into the lobby, and locks eyes with Fear. Its still-dripping mask smiles, unnatural mouth full of shadowed sharp teeth.

The woman looks afraid for a moment, eyes darting, and then a strange light passes over her. Her image dissipates like burning wood, leaving behind-

Its huntress. Other than a few new scrapes and gashes of crimson, battle scars and dull welts, she is exactly as it remembers. Same platinum hair, long coat, and knocked bow. Her emerald eyes stay bolted to Fear's, resolute, lips curled and snarling, but brows pleading.

She is a vision.

Past her, through the door, it catches a strange sight. Standing on wrong-bent legs, a man of metal and magic lumbers between round tables, with sharp dagger claws and an unmoving face of brass. Bursts of steam fume from the cracks between the plates with every movement, and it trudges forward with malicious intent toward the huntress.

The metal monster wishes to rob Fear of its greatest hunt. It must be destroyed.

Fear slides down the railing of the stairs, leaping toward the door, past the huntress, and swings wide to deflect the clockwork defender's downward slam. Sent from the force of the collision, Fear flips and lands on the inside wall of the restaurant.

It takes in the already-unfolded battle here. Three men lay dead across the floor, one trailing blood across an upturned table, a streak of red down the white cloth, like an exclamation mark with his corpse as the dot. Broken glass and dishware coat the carpet. A raised stage overlooks the eating space, instruments set up to host to a band that isn't there. Behind the automaton, a long bar suffused with spilled drinks spans the length of the room.

Unfeeling, glowing blue eyes stare back at the blood drinker. The clockwork man outstretches its arm toward Fear, still perched upon the wall, the metal plates of its arm shifting around themselves, an opening from which a long javelin tip extends. Fear turns end-over-end to avoid the harpoon shot, as a projectile the length of Fear's mortal body embeds itself in the wall. A long metal wire extends from the blunt end back toward the machine.

Fear vaults from the wall, gripping the flat end of its sword to use as a handle along the makeshift zip line, pulled taut as the machine tries to wrench free its toy. Sliding down to locate a weak point, to rend apart-

A terribly loud sound CRACKS from the stage, like a firework. Immense, sharp pain erupts in Fear's side, a burning iron spike sledgehammered into its core. The ripping feeling through its organs knocks its balance from the descent, but it does not hit the ground. The machine reaches forward with its other hand to catch the vampire, and slams it down in a wide arc, smashing it into the bar behind it. The wood shatters, splintered and destroyed, forming a makeshift coffin, and Fear is treated to a shower of alcohol and glass.

Buried within the wreckage, it explores through the terrible pain to find a small, circular wound, burned deep through its right side. It scrambles like a dying animal. It needs to recuperate, but the lumbering beast above it will give it no quarter. Whatever force injured it knew to strike while it was distracted.

The machine marches forward, standing above Fear, cold mask of apathy looking down. It raises one hand to stomp out the vermin.

"HEY, GEAR-DICK!", the vivacious voice of the huntress yells. An arrow sails through the air, striking the machine in the back of the head. The machine shakes, its head turning perfectly around its neck. Its body follows after, focus shifted. It marches after the woman, lumbering through the double doors.

The automaton is excised by the huntress's distraction, but flushed under light, Fear is a sitting duck. It needs some advantage.

It closes its eyes. It does not need to see for this. With its nose as a guide, it focuses on the freshly made cadavers, blood not yet dry, iron scent still hanging in the air. It pulls at the corpse blood with sheer will, sluicing it slowly through the wounds, the mouths, whatever orifice will bleed. It gathers the blood in the air, hanging as a dripping ball of sanguine.

The blood forms into an imagined floating river, winding back toward the vampire's prone form. A snaking tendril of crimson drifts over the bar, down to its mouth, and Fear opens wide to drink.

The blood is cold and stale, and it forces down the urge to spit it out, to vomit the sticking, gelling liquid back up. It is not a pleasant meal, but it needs its strength. Its wound begins to suture itself closed, flesh reknitting against flesh, forcing the offending foreign object out through the regrowing organs and sinew. It feels a chunk of cold matter pass through it, feeling the size of a rat crawling itself out from the dark. But when it finally spits from Fear's body, it is no larger than a thimble. A small capsule-shaped chunk of metal, warped at the edges by some conflagration. A bullet.

It was shot. It doesn't like that much at all.

There is another CRACK-BOOM from the stage, a whizzing sound through the air, and a glass bottle in a wine rack shatters afore Fear, bursting with violet decadence. Another, and it hears wood splintering behind it. The gunman is reminding it of their presence. Keeping it pinned.

It crawls out of the wood indent in the bar, staying the covered side from the shooter. The remaining blood pools beside it, forming a gestalt swirl of ichor spinning around and around.

Not enough to reach the marksman in a wave. But perhaps, it doesn't need it to.

It needs darkness if it is to complete its hunt. There are too many lights to dispatch individually. It will need to flip the switch. From its sheltering position, Fear surveys the room. A brass panel of alternating buttons lays flat against the interior wall, next to the doorway. Over open ground, it will never reach it without risking another bullet, not even with its speed.

Not unless the shooter is looking elsewhere. Fear concentrates on the spiraling blood before it, and shapes it like a sculptor.

The blood forms arms, legs, a head. It concentrates again to approximate the finer details of its form... only to remember: it isn't sure what it looks like. The strange thought jolts flashes through its mind-

You are joking, right? Your eyes glow - barely gets enough sun as it is - It's a good look. They're cute - got four of 'em between us.

It shakes its head, the envisioned snippets burning to ash behind its eyes. A vague simulacrum will have to suffice.

The blood construct vaults over the bar, a bullet whizzing into the back wall as it surmounts. Fear sends the decoy in a wide fan to the left of the stage, waiting until it's made sufficient distance. More shots fire from the platform, blood splattering off the form as it goes.

Fear dashes out from behind the bar, a wild sprint toward the switch. 20 feet, 10 feet... it paws along the buttons right as another crack breaks the air, and a large chunk of wooden wall splinters beside the panel. The lights to the restaurant dim into darkness, leaving only a ring of upward-shining spotlights on the stage itself. It can work with that.

In the split second it has to act while still in the open, illuminated from the back by the still-lit lobby, Fear ducks into shadow, wrapping it around the vampire's form like a veil, and it jaunts hard through the dark. It lands onto the ceiling as another shot pierces the floor where it had been.

Now with time to survey, Fear looks to the stage. A short halfling with wild orange hair swings a rifle around, desperate and erratic in her search for the monster. She is... familiar...

Yes, yes it knows this one. It despises

this one, though it is not sure why. But it knows that she is its quarry, the ringleader it has resolved to vivisect.

Too far to control, the bloody form of its distraction falls to offal on the floor, but it has all it needs in the shade. With writhing umbral strands welling behind it, it crawls along the ceiling, blade at the ready.

Shadow drips down onto the stage like liquid. Drops and drops forming a puddle, falling silently behind the woman. She swings the gun around, an unmistakable and transcendent tone of panic in her throat as she yells, "I know you're out there! Show yourself!"

Mortals are always the same. Screaming at the dark to demand their own safety of it. Fear will gladly show her what the night thinks she deserves.

Fear pulls itself through shadow, rising arms-first from the inky puddle like a corpse clawing itself from the grave. Before it is even fully through, it stabs into the woman's heel, folding her along the crease of her knees. It jaunts past, snatching the firearm from her hands as it goes.

Were it still the starving beast of yore, it would be done with her. But now...

It locks eyes with the halfling, fallen to her knees and tending to her slashed tendons, and with the strength of shadows, snaps the firearm in two. Throwing the metal pieces to its sides, it gathers the dark in a swirling whirlwind around them, inky enervations twisting the stage and buffeting their hair, picking up the scattered instruments, the tossed glass, and the loose boards of the stage itself in its cyclone.

She looks up, delectable terror in her eyes. "You... you're the nance. How is this... why are you...?"

"BEG."

Fear stomps hard onto her scrambling hand, cracking the finger bones beneath its foot. She yelps in pain. "GAH! Stop! We can... we can work something out. We're a business - there must be something you want...?"

"SCREAM."

It stabs into her midsection to illicit the sweet howls of a ruined creature. The blood spills across the stage, picked up the shadow squall. The halfling's wailing face is a caricature of horror and hatred, snarled upper lip and furrowed eyes.

It crouches down, its masque of terror flaring in upwards-drifting shadow like smoke.

"EXPIRE."

* * *

The lobby is empty now of the panicked crowd. There are only four figures left standing under the light of the chandeliers; the huntress, the machine, and the previously-restrained individuals from the upper floor. The three humanoids battle the automaton, as it stands half-again as tall as the huntress, swinging wide with its claws of metal, harried by spell, blade, and bow.

Fear yearns for revenge against the armored ruffian's sunlight insult, itching and sniffing at the air to seek advantage.

The small blue one looks down at it, and says, "Roodie! Did'ya have fun?"

It tilts its head at her, and crouches low to begin its assault. The huntress looks behind her, narrowly dodging a slam from the metal man. She shouts, "Drop the disguise!"

Clawing up the stairs, Fear skids to a halt as the form of the sylph flits away, revealing the faun mage from its previous outing. It backs up with a snarl, knowing better than to engage fairly with her magic. The armored one too drops her disguise, showing herself as the knight. All three responsible for its previous defeat have gathered for a rematch. It will gladly oblige.

But first, the machine must be destroyed. These three must be taught to fear its power; what better way than a demonstration?

It vaults over the railing, rolling to a crawl along the floor, assessing the automaton for a weak point. The huntress backs away, firing an arrow between its clockwork joints. As the machine moves to swipe at the knight, its arm locks at the restriction, twisting backwards and around to excise the detritus.

Fear looks to the huntress, darts its eyes to the machine, then back again to her. She nods. As clever as it has come to expect. She moves up the stairs parallel with the machine, arrow knocked for opportunity.

The knight blocks a claw swing, but the machine rotates along its gearwork spine to slash again. The second attack sends her reeling backwards, off-balance. But with its back turned, another volley of arrows fills its joints. Fear springs forward, blade aimed down to sunder its stoney face.

Its blade bounces right off. For its efforts, Fear is only smacked away like a bird hitting a window. It slams into the ground, and scrambles away.

"Damn!", yells the huntress, "Glowbug! Give it some heat!"

"On it!" The mage begins to channel a spell, orange-red energy glowing at her fingertips.

The automaton looks to the huntress, and shoots its harpoon in her direction. She narrowly dodges, but just as soon as the spear embeds into the stairs, the machine reels it back, taking along with it chunks of the railing and floor, with the huntress atop. She loses her balance from her pulled-away stairstep, slamming with a roll onto the ground.

Wasting no time, the automaton steps toward her. The voice of the mage from the balcony above enchants, "INCUTIO DUM FERRUM CALUM". Its movement grow strange and erratic, head twitching, as the metal of its plates and joints start to glow white-hot. The steam that shoots off from its movements now rises from every crack.

This seems to confuse whatever machine mind it operates on, as it looks back and forth across the lobby, unsure where its damage is originating. The knight returns to the battle, testing the automaton's defenses, drawing its attention away.

Fear looks to the huntress. She shakes her head and stands to her feet, and says, "Got an idea. Roodie..." She looks to Fear, trepidatious, not getting too close. "Could you hit it real hard if we locked it down?"

It tilts its head. She is so unafraid that she is willing to strategize with it? She may be the most remarkable creature it has encountered... "It requires the dark", it slings through its maw.

She looks to the mage. "You heard the... vam...pire?" As the mage runs off to look for the lightswitch, the huntress looks back to Fear. "And, uh. One more thing. Gonna need your sword." Her hand outstretches.

An audacious request. It should hate her for her courage. Instead it is awestruck. It almost doesn't care if this is a ruse; it cannot help but appreciate a well-laid trap. Fear tosses the huntress its blade.

"Do your thing, Roodie."

The vampire darts up the wall, then the ceiling, positioning itself above the machine. The knight continues her assault, blocking and keeping the automaton on its toes. She is an impressive fighter on her own, and her holy abilities make her the most dangerous to the monster. It can respect her prowess. And the mage, too, with her quick answer to every quandary. Of all the souls reaped from this tower, none held a candle to the worth of these three.

Out go the lights. The machine glows red in the dark, still burning from the mage's spell. The knight draws it to the stairs, where she leaps off a railing and plants her sword in the machine's shoulder socket. From behind it, the huntress does the same to the other side, jamming Fear's blade between the gears.

Fear has... rather exhausted itself over the course off the night. It will only barely have enough energy to do battle with the three once this is done. But one thing at a time. Gathering dark magic from the space around it, Fear shapes shadow into eight pinpoint tendrils, then melds the points together into a single Fear-sized arrow.

And it drops.

The darkened tendrils plunge and rip through the jittering machine, sundering it into a thousand pieces of burning metal and singed gearworks.

It lands with a hard slam onto its leg amidst the metal remnants. As it stands, the knight looks upon it wide-eyed.

A brief pause fills the air, as the truce crumbles to dust. It raises its arms-

From behind it, something sharp jams into Fear's neck, plunged in a moment of weakness. It turns on a dime to swipe out instinctually with shadowy claws, but the huntress rolls under the attack. She backs up, standing now just ahead of the knight. Behind them, the mage looks on, ready to cast.

Fear pulls the offending weapon from its side. A syringe, exactly like what subdued it in their last bout. They have bested it again. Soon it will lie dormant.

It stares into the eyes of the huntress, her gaze made of pure steel. It stumbles forward.

The shadowstuff of its claws melt away, leaving behind the mockery of human hands of its vessel. The huntress does not back away, does not even flinch. Fear reaches out... and caresses her cheek, staring deep into her eyes.

It is so glad to have lost.

Fear collapses, melting into her grip. She catches it around the midsection, pulling it tight against her. She is phenomenal, clever, and more than its match. But her grip is so gentle, holding it like a cherished doll, like it's something made of cloth and skin, not blood and fang. She holds it for the first time, and it never wants this to end.

She makes it want to forget itself.

The tension sloughs from it in droves, sight and sound muddling into a messy, running haze, and it drifts away slowly, safe in her embrace.