Outsider's Game: Night King

by Bluecho

15 - True Faith

“Oh God noAAGH!”

Dougal Dempsey barely heard the screams, eyes locked on the man in his grip.

The hunter choked, clawing at the Keeper's arm. His feet dangled and kicked, suspended above asphalt littered with spent shells and fresh-splattered blood. Pitiful mortal, gasping for air. Eyes whipping frantically about, seeking anything but to meet those of the monster. Sweat drops flowed over pot-marked skin, salty body odor mingling with pungent blood and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

The Keeper raised the hunter in his grasp a fraction, occluding the moon behind his frazzled hair. Holes dotted Dougal's suit, evidence of fruitless gun-play. It stung only slightly, and hobbled him not at all.

Nora's prone, staked form lay splayed on the ground not far from Dougal's feet. She stared out at a sky stricken of stars by urban light pollution, unmoving.

“Ack...” the hunter choked. His hand groped frantically at his neck. Then it traveled down. He jammed his fingers into a shirt pocket, gripping a small object. The hand yanked free, brandishing a wooden cross.

Dougal looked at the cross, eyebrows rising.

Marking the vampire's surprise, the hunter jammed the cross forward, almost into Dougal's face.

Dougal flinched, head jerking back. He blinked. Then he frowned.

It would be so easy to just let him go.

Snap.

The hunter's body crumpled to the ground, eyes wide and neck twisted in an incorrect angle. The wooden cross fell from his slack fingers, clattering on the asphalt.

Dougal sighed, gazing sadly down at the cadaver. “Damn...” he mumbled.

Stooping low, he turned the man over. The vampire lifted his chin, seeing the neck flushing a deep purple where Dougal held him. Pulling at the collar, Dougal found a chain. A silver cross dangled from it, glinting in the moonlight.

“Damn...damn...” Dougal rubbed his face with his hand, covering his eyes. He shook his head. Breathing deep – exhaling – he looked again, down at the body. His free hand traced the bulge of the crucifix in his own pocket.

“...Nora!”

Dougal looked over his shoulder, then crouch walked over. He loomed over the girl, hand hovering over her heart, impaled as it was with a wooden spike.

“Damn!” he said, wiggling his hand under her neck. Tilting her up at a forty five degree angle, Dougal seized the protruding oak shaft. Gripped it firmly. He wrenched it free with one swift motion.

“GAHhhh!” Nora gasped, head lurching back in pain. She snapped her eyes close, hissing, and clutched at her sucking chest wound. “Aah! Fuck!”

“It's okay, I've got you,” Dougal said, patting her on the shoulder. Looking backwards, he spotted the downed hunter's body. He looked back towards the girl, then back to the body. “...hold on,” he said, getting up.

A hand patted onto the body's chest. “Sorry,” Dougal said, before hooking his hands under the man's arms and dragging him over to Nora.

“Here, drink,” Dougal said, pulling the sleeve down on one of the man's arms and extending it in front of her face.

Nora, clutching her chest, looked at the limb offered her. She cringed, frowning uncomfortably. “Ugh...” she groaned, looking horrified at the body. This despite her extended fangs, and the unconscious way she breathed heavily.

“Nora...he's already dead,” Dougal said, not dropping the arm. “And you need to feed.” He pushed the hand into her arms.

She held the arm – still warm – frowning further. She shuddered, then leaned forward. Bringing the wrist to her lips, Nora opened wide her jaws. Her teeth clamped down quickly, and her eyes closed. “Mmm...”

“There you are.”

Lance and Siobhan walked up from behind, each bearing signs of their previous fight.

Siobhan's hooded cloak – normally dove white – was stained red down the front. One side of the hood was torn away, her exposed cheek marred by a thick cut. This however quickly knitted itself before their eyes.

The left side of Lance's body displayed signs of flame, the coat sleeve and shoulder charred. His left cheek was burned slightly, giving off a a smokey odor, but was otherwise more intact than it had any right to be. He held his saber in his right hand, dripping scarlet. “You took care of yours?”

“...yes, we did,” Dougal said, looking towards the Tzimisce, still engrossed in feeding. He turned back to Lance, staring at his marred cheek and singed golden hair. “Are you okay?” he said, pointing to the leader's face.

“It's nothing,” Lance said, patting his face. His face twitched at the touch, almost imperceptibly. “I need to find a cook,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “There was a diner, a mile in that direction. When you've all fed, we'll...”

“You bastards!”

From behind a stack of garbage, a figure jumped out. His face locked into a furious scowl, his skin glistened. His hair whipped about, leaden with the weight of sweat. “Aaaagh!” he bellowed, charging full bore towards the undead creatures.

A fire burned in his heart, and atop the bottle in his hand.

Dougal could scarcely comprehend the sight, save by the sudden fear that entered his heart. He stared in horror at the Molotov cocktail.

“Kill you!” the hunter screamed, a trickle of liquid welling from his eyes. “You killed my friends!” His flame-bearing arm arched back, investing his full weight into the throw.

Bang.

An ear-splitting sound cut from the distance. The bottle shattered in a dozen pieces. Soaked rag and alcohol rained over the hunter along with jagged dark glass. Liquid ignited in the air as it fell, cascading over the mortal's body.

“Ah! Ah! AH!” the hunter screamed, skidding to a stop, almost falling. Flailing his arms around as his dull brown coat and graying brown hair erupted in flame. His body soon blazed orange, his face turned down as his confusion turned to agony. “AAAAAAHHH!”

Bang, bang, bang.

His body convulsed, crimson sprays firing off from his body, glittering in the orange light. The hunter staggered, his cries cut short, replaced with a slight gurgle. Swayed a little to the left, to the right, then the body went utterly limp.

He collapsed to ground, stone dead.

On fire.

The group stared at the smoldering heap a moment.

Click. “Hey, over here!”

A rather shabby man with a long mane of disheveled hair and aviator sunglasses sauntered over. He wore a stained, brown leather coat over a dirty denim jacket. His cargo pants looked very old, pockets sagging with their heavy loads. From his shoulder was slung an army service rifle*, smoke drifting lazily from the muzzle.

He smiled broadly. “Hey, name's Mason,” the man said, patting his armament affectionately. “I was in the neighborhood, heard the commotion. Thought I'd step in. Hunters?”

Dougal, Lance, Nora, and Siobhan stared at him.

“...um...” Lance said, looking from the strange man to the many corpses on the ground. His facial burn scars stood out against his pale face and blond hair.

“Oh, don't worry,” Mason said, pulling down his sunglasses. They shown a brilliant blue. “I'm a vampire, like you. Not...entirely sure what kind, but I am. Hope that's okay.”

He looked down towards Nora. “Hey, uh, you gonna finish that?”

Nora stared nervously at the gun-toting man, the last mouth-full of scarlet fluid having long dribbled down her neck.

Dougal remained silent, looking back and forth between the two.

To his surprise, they would all be sharing the cup, later that night.

Oh God damn it!

Dougal Dempsey sat up in his bed, staring at the door with bleary eyes. He gritted his teeth. “How did you get in here?” he barked, squinting in the hallway light, “Where are my guards?”

The silhouette in the doorway paused, then said, “Your minions are not here. They have gone away, and left you vulnerable. It's just you and I, demon!”

Crossing the threshold, the figure entered the room. Light fell upon his body, revealing more his features. An earth pony stallion, a dusty brown overcoat was draped over his withers, a wreath of garlic hung from his neck. His head was topped by a battered brown hat, wrinkled and darkened from use, the brim eaten through by insects. He had the most prominent mutton-chops, and scattered locks of graying mane-hair poked from beneath his hat.

The stallion was old. His face was creased by prominent wrinkles.

Sweat drops trickled down his brow, soaking his ash-tinted coat, once the color of cinnamon.

Dougal blinked, eyelids heavy. He sighed. “Fine.”

Pale, cold fingers seized the blanket, violently throwing the covering off. Dougal's nearly naked body rose to standing position, dropping the blanket to the bed.

“Fine, old man,” Dougal said, looking across the room at the intruder. He noted to himself vaguely that, withered as the stallion was, they were probably roughly the same age. Difference was, of course, Dougal's body betrayed none of it. “You want to do this? Fine.”

The stallion flinched, stepping back. He sucked air, and knit his brow together, frowning. More sweat broke out on his face. “I am Glog Hawthorne, son of Simon Dee, son of Svetocher...”

“Let me guess...” Dougal said, taking a step forward, causing the stallion to flinch again. To watch the vampire's bare legs, one adorned with a black, foreign tattoo. The vampire took another step, keeping his eyes locked on the venerable earth pony. “...you are the heir to a long, distinguished line of vampire hunters. Right?”

Dougal looked lower. Saw the pony's legs shake.

He sighed. “Tell me, have you ever done this before?” he said, cocking his head to the side.

“I-I'm not afraid of you!” said Glog Hawthorne, though he bent lower. He was looking up at the approaching figure. His right hoof fished through a coat pocket, then came out slotted into a metal ring. One side of the ring had a clamp, fastened in it a foot-long shaft of wood. It stuck out perpendicular to his leg, pointed out and away from his body to the right.

“A stake! Wonderful!” Dougal said, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. He sighed, shaking his head. Took a step. “How...nostalgic...”

“Take another step,” the stallion said, raising his stake-leg and pointing the sharp end forward, “and I'll...”

“Oh yes, be my guest,” Dougal said, another step closer. “Charge me, 'hunter'. Pierce this cold, withered heart!” He stretched his arms out wide, standing now halfway towards the pony. Despite the sun high in the sky above the roof, Dougal smiled tiredly. “Assuming you can find it!”

Glog Hawthorne stared at the tall, gangly figure. His eyes traveled over the vampire's chest, his abdomen, his pale shoulders and neck. Glog shook all over, desperately searching the marble-like edifice in confusion. He clutched the stake close to his chest, breathing rapidly.

Dougal turned his head. “No? Alright...” He lowered his arms, then began walking again.

“S-stop!” the stallion cried. His left foreleg shot up, pawing clumsily at his neck. In the effort, the wreath of garlic bulbs snapped and tumbled to the ground. Glog stumbled backwards, retreating to the door frame. “Stay back!”

“No, I don't think I will,” Dougal said, continuing his march. He purposely found a garlic bulb that had rolled forward, and stamped on it with his naked foot. It crunched in a satisfying way, the herbal scent wafting up to his nose.

He breathed deep, bitter-sweet memories stirring in his mind. Of discussing business with Tony over pasta and garlic bread. Of a romantic dinner with Rebecca.

Dougal's smile faded. “This is my home, old man,” the Keeper said, letting his feet fall again on the fallen garland as he walked. “You are the one trespassing.”

The stallion bumbed into the door frame, gasping. He groped blindly at the wood barring his retreat, daring not take his eyes away. His free hoof grabbed at his white shirt. “...Celestia preserve me...” he whispered.

“And if you have no intention of making your attempt to murder me...” Dougal said, stopping short. He towered over the hunter now, his eerily stiff body contrasting with the pony's quivering form. As like a field mouse before a mountain. He dipped his head forward. “...then I'm going to kindly ask you to leave.”

“S-s-stop!” A lump in his throat, sweat-soaked locks of hair poking from beneath his hat, the stallion took purchase of an object at his neck. He whipped it out, a medallion hung from a golden chain. He thrust it forward and up, displaying the shape of a shining sun, crossed diagonally with an X of thorny vines. “G-GET BACK! BACK I SAY!”

The vampire started backwards, blinking at the item.

It glittered invitingly in the light from the doorway. The item was clearly, largely composed of gold.

He frowned. “I'm sorry, old man.”

A pale hand clasped over the medallion as it swung from its chain.

“GAH!” the stallion cried, the hoof holding the pendent up jerking away. Glog tried to pull away, but only found the chain around his neck grow taut.

“But I'm afraid...” Dougal said, face twitching slightly at the corner. He yanked back, the chain snapping effortlessly from the hunter's neck. Not even pausing, he held the double-sided medallion up to the pony. “...your Faith was insufficiently strong to make this work.”

The earth pony gaped incredulously at the medallion. At the vampire. His heart thundered in his chest. “Sweet...Celestia...” Glog Hawthorne clapped his eyes closed for a moment, shaking his head. Finally, he gritted his teeth. “Aaaaah!” he cried, voice hoarse. His right foreleg rearing back, he thrust for the monster's flesh.

The Lasombra's free fist, pale as the moon, caught the shaft of wood easily. All forward momentum ceased.

Dougal sighed. His fist closed tighter, and the wood snapped loudly, cleanly.

The stallion fell back against the door frame, his hat popping up and settling again, askew. He looked at his foreleg, and the few splinters yet held by the metal clasp, with horror.

“You know...”

Glog Hawthorne looked up to the voice, skin paling visibly. His mouth was agape, his chest too winded to utter a cry.

“...if I may make a suggestion...” Dougal said, his left fist crushing the stolen stake to splinters. He allowed the shattered pieces fall to the floor in a cloud of wood dust. The Keeper stared intently at the pony.

He leaned far forward, so his face hovered mere inches from the stallion's. Dougal Dempsey smelled the equine's breath. He looked him straight in the eyes.

“Run.”

“What'd you get in with your hayburger?”

Two white, gold-clad soldiers marched up the apartment building stairs. In their hooves were white paper bags, laden with precious victuals. At the top of the flight, they walked on, passing a window.

One guard fished through his bag, pulling a little bundle up and holding it up to the sunlight – the last bit of sunlight they'd likely see for the rest of the day, before the evening shift change.

Unwrapping the paper pouch revealed a tiny plastic figure of a colt in mask and cape.

“Ah shucks,” the guard said, frowning. “Got another Hum Drum.”

“I got a Fili-Second,” said the other guard, smiling.

“Wanna trade?”

“Can't, I've already got a Hum Drum, and I'm one away from a complete set.”

Sigh. “Swell. Come on, we've been gone long enough as it is.”

“It's not my fault they took so long fixing the soft serve machine.”

The guards rounded the corner, approaching the apartment.

“You know we're not supposed to leave Dempsey.”

“Oh, we were only gone for a few minutes.” The second guard waved his hoof. “He sleeps all day, anyway. What could possibly happen?”

The door flew open, crashing loudly against the wall. Glog Hawthorne, drenched in sweat and panting profusely, dove out the opening and took off running. “Ah! Ah! AAAAAAAAGH!” he screamed, gasping.

He bolted past the startled guards, falling over on the ground as he ran. The would-be vampire hunter scrambled to his hooves, clutching his hat to his head and continuing the sprint. He disappeared around the corner, and soon his hooves clattered loudly and frantically on the stairs.

The two guards looked at each other, then at the corner where the old stallion had retreated to, then to the apartment door.

They rushed inside the door.

“Mr. Dempsey?” the first guard called.

“Uh, sir?” said the second guard.

“Ugh...where were you two?”

Dougal Dempsey stood at the mouth of the hallway leading to his bedroom, leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes were half-shut, long locks of jet-black hair hanging limping in front of his face. He clutched a golden bauble shakily in his hand.

“I mean, it's not like a pay you, or anything,” Dougal croaked, rubbing an eye, “let alone retain you to protect my person. But...” He raised his free hand up, palm up. “...I would think it was your job to stop ponies from sneaking in here in the middle of the day, for multiple reasons.”

The guards stared at the vampire. One looked hard to the side, lips turning up guiltily. The other guard looked to the ground, coughing into his hoof.

“...whatever, I'm not in the mood,” Dougal said, turning around. He swayed as he walked. “I'm going to back to bed.” He paused only briefly to drop the medallion into a clay bowl that sat on a decorative hall table.

“It's too early for this shit,” he mumbled, rubbing his numb right hand.

It was quiet. Unusually quiet.

The man exited the alley, ears peeled for potential witnesses. His hands busied themselves with adjusting his brown smoking jacket. A heavy leather messenger bag was slung at his hip. He looked left, then right, wiping fresh blood from his chin.

After a moment, he started walking, satisfied that the only sound around was that of the vagrant dozing behind him, left paler for the experience.

The Warlock got a dozen paces before he thought he heard the sound of crunching concrete. He looked above, straining his vision against the high moon.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Ach!” he cried, convulsing as warm gore sprayed from his body. He staggered towards a brick wall.

“Surprise, motherfucker!”

Mason ran suddenly from the shadows, lining his rifle for another burst.

“Haauuch!” gasped the Warlock, fangs bared reflexively. He scowled, turning to face the Caitiff.

His fingers went to work, gesturing expertly despite the pain. “By coelestis exercitus...gubernantes aer,” he muttered under his breath, “spirant ventus sub me!”

The Warlock spread his hands towards the ground, palms down. His jacket flaps flared as a gust of wind rushed under his feet. So great was the force, it buoyed the man up like a balloon. Feet leaving the ground, he rose dramatically into the air.

“What the hell?” Mason said, rifle dropping below his eye line as he watched the ascending vampire. “You've gotta be kidding me!”

The Warlock kept his eyes on the man with the gun, muttering a chant beneath his breath. Soon he crested the ground level, hovering near the second floor windows of the building behind him.

“Caw, caw!”

Three or four crows flew into Warlock's face, wings flapping as they swarmed over him.

“Ack!” grunted the Warlock, arms flailing at the airborne assailants. Chanting still, he desperately attempted to float higher.

Then an obsidian hand stretched out from beneath a brick ledge, seizing the man by the foot.

“Ah! Ah-” The Warlock was jerked from the air, pulled down rapidly. “Ack!”

Like a rag doll, he was slammed bodily against the hard concrete. The shadowy arm extended from the high ledge, black fist gripped tight around the vampire's ankle.

“Yeah! Keep 'em down!” Mason called. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger thrice.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Yaaagh!” gasped the Warlock, arms grasping impotently at the ground. His legs kicked, but he could not budge the dark limb binding him. His back was perforated by another set of holes.

Weakly, he rolled onto his back, blood welling from his mouth. “...you...maniacs!” he choked, spying shadowed figures approaching behind Mason. “Do you...ack...know who you're...you are dealing with?”

“Yes.”

The Warlock looked to the sky, eyes widening. A black figure was reflected in them, a silhouette against the full moon.

Feet clattered hard to the ground, a saber arching downward. It sliced clean, cleaving meat and bone, spraying a gout of blood to the air.

Lance rose from his crouch. “A Camarilla rat,” he said, “justly exterminated.” He flicked his blade, drops of blood flying off and splashing against the wall.

Mason approached, lowering his rifle. “Damn, Lance,” he said, shaking his head. He flashed a fang-filled toothy smile. “That's one smooth maneuver.” He leaned down, taking up the decapitated head that had rolled to a stop at his feet.

“Is it him?” Lance said, raising his blade and licking at the trail of cooling blood.

“Yep! That it is,” Mason said, studying the face. He noted how blood dripped from the stump, and tipped the neck up. “This is definitely the guy I saw, talking to those hunters the other night.”

“Then it's true,” Lance said, sheathing his saber, “this was a Tremere plot. How risky of this man, however, to trick hunters into fighting the Jyhad for him.”

“A Tremere?” said Mason, wiping his finger over the neck stump and licking the blood.

“A House of mortal sorcerers, once,” said Siobhan, walking up from behind. She held out a hand, and the quartet of crows landed on her. She nudged them into resting on her shoulders. “Until their fear of death pushed them ta pursue the agelessness of unlife. Fools. Twas a curse stolen, as well.” She looked sidelong at Nora. “And made an enemy of yer kin, wee lass, so many years ago.”

Nora averted her eyes from the head in Mason's hands, instead kneeling at the fallen Tremere's body. Already she could see the flesh begin to break up and dwindle, turning to ash. She averted her eyes from the man's neck, instead, grabbing his bag.

Her eyes lit up in curiosity, hands probing the bag's contents. She pulled out a set of notebooks. “What are these?” she said, beginning to open one.

“No doubt his tomes of sorceries,” Lance said.

“Magic?” Mason said, looking at the corpse. “That stuff's real?”

“Vampires are real,” Lance said flatly, turning away and looking up to the roof.

“Fair enough,” Mason said, shrugging. He raised the head in his hands and tipped the neck down, letting scarlet fluid drain into his open mouth.

Dougal descended to the concrete street, lowered by the shadowy arm he summoned. As he touched down, the arm retreated into the dark spot from whence it spawned. “So what do we do now?” he asked, joining the others.

“No one else around?” Lance asked.

“None that I could see,” Dougal said. He inclined his head behind and to the side. “A few lights went on a few doors down, but there doesn't appear to be anyone coming. Yet.”

“Then let's move,” Lance said. “Once we've regrouped at the house, we'll set about finding this city's Tremere Chantry. And we must be quick about it. Best we strike again in the next few nights. The other sorcerers will note this one's absence.” He started marching away. “Let's go!”

Mason shook his head. “Magic,” he said, smiling, “shit. Well I'll be.” He left too, followed by Siobhan.

Dougal looked down at Nora. “Coming?”

“Yes,” Nora nodded, though she didn't look up. Her hands leafed through the pages, her eyes playing over packed, tiny handwritten script and arcane diagrams. Finally, with a sigh, she closed the book, piling it back in the bag. She pulled it off the rapidly decaying corpse with some difficulty.

Dougal began walking, smiling as the Tzimisce ran to catch up, the blood-splattered bag slung from her shoulder.

“What can you tell me about this?”

Princess Luna extended her hoof, allowing the vampire to drop the cloth-covered object onto it. Her horn flared up, projecting an aura around the cloth folds. The bundle opened like a blossoming flower.

The golden medallion of the sun glittered in the artificial light.

“This...is the seal of the Sunlit Thorns,” Luna said, staring at the pendent. “My sister told me of them, back when I first returned to the world.” She leaned back in the chair, sitting across from Dougal. The vampire's coffee table divided them, guards milling about in the nearby kitchen. The Princess sighed. “A thousand years ago...before I became Nightmare Moon, I was the primary hunter of vampires. It was a responsibility I took up with...some relish.” She looked uneasily at Dougal.

The Keeper said nothing. He merely sat, one leg cross over the other, and sipped precious vitae from a wine glass.

“...when I was banished, my sister was left without a means of handling the vampire problem.” Luna looked down at the medallion. “Celestia was ruling Equestria by herself then, and had neither the time nor, I think, the desire to hunt the undead. Moreover, she did not feel comfortable allowing ponies to form militia groups to fight them. They would be untrained, prone to panic, and potentially in danger. And...well...”

Dougal swirled his glass. “A mob of frightened citizens, armed with pitchforks and fire,” Dougal said flatly, “can get out of hoof, as the saying goes. Jumpy, and prone to attacking anything different or strange. Believe me, I understand. Remind me not to tell you about my own world's lynch mobs.”

Luna frowned, then nodded. “Correct. Instead, Celestia founded the Sunlit Thorns, an order of vampony hunters. They were trained to correctly identify signs of vampirism, seek them where they hid, and eliminate them. They were also given the authority to raise and lead hunting parties of common ponies, should the need be dire enough. It was hoped that by having an institution that could fight vampires, and lead ponies where appropriate, it would bring stability and reassurance to Equestria.”

She held up the medallion. “Each member of the Sunlit Thorns was given this symbol, as proof of their authority and as a weapon against the creatures of the night.” She looked at the trinket, tapping her chin. “You took this off the pony who attacked you?”

“That I did,” Dougal said, swirling his glass. “You sound surprised.”

“The Seal of the Sunlit Thorns is supposed to turn the undead,” Luna said, holding it up. “This did not happen to you?”

“It did not,” Dougal said, waving his hand. “If you ask me, the old horse didn't have the faith.”

“Faith?”

“In my world,” said Dougal, taking a sip of blood, “there are stories. Stories of mortals who could do as you suggest. Bear a cross, and by its holiness cow vampires. As you know already, I have no allergy to crosses – I carry one with me. Nor have I ever personally encountered anyone who raised a cross to me, and have it work as intended.”

He sipped again. “But...I have met Cainites across the land, over my decades of activity, who swore up and down that there are some mortals who could do it. That it was not the symbol, but the faith of those men and women that turn the dead. Individuals so pious their very presence was anathema to our kind. There are tales of hardened Sabbat warriors fleeing like frightened, sobbing children, from mere mortal men. Among Cainite and Kindred alike, it is called True Faith. There are even rumors of Cainites with sufficient faith to turn their own kind. But there's never specifics, and most agree that such a vampire would need to be saint in order to wield such power.

“So I think it's not that the Seal is magic,” Dougal continued, tapping his knee. “Perhaps is has some hidden enchantment, or had it sometime long in the past. Rather, I think that those hunters of long ago truly believed in the righteousness of their cause, and in the holiness of their seemingly divine Princess. It is, after all, a symbol of the sun.”

Luna frowned. “Hmm...I will need to speak to my sister about that...and about this power of faith.” She placed the medallion and cloth on the table. “You speak of Cainites with this...True Faith...you do not claim to be one of them?”

“Oh no,” Dougal said, shaking his head. “I have faith, but True Faith is something far greater, and far more rare. The modern world is a bleak place, and those with any sort of faith grow rarer each day. Even among mortals, such resolve is rare. And as I said, it would take a saint for a Cainite to bear True Faith.” He frowned slightly, then sipped his blood. “I am not a saint.”

“You used your mind control on that hunter, did you not?” Luna asked, raising an eyebrow. But she frowned sadly, rather than glaring angrily. “You know the rules.”

“Yes I did,” Dougal said, nodding. “I ordered him to run. At that point the old man was frightened out of his wits. Unfortunately, terrified individuals have a habit of acting erratically. I wanted him to run, but I feared he might curl up into a little ball, or else do something really stupid: attack me further.” Dougal swirled his glass. “Understand, I didn't want to hurt the old fool. But I was afraid he would hurt himself, or force me to take more drastic measures to stop him. I could have, you know. Stopped him. This, by my estimation at the time, was the easiest method.

“That, and because I just wanted to go back to bed. It was such an awful hour.”

Luna sighed, pressing a hoof against her forehead. “Very well, I suppose it couldn't be helped. The stallion has been detained, only a little worse for wear. It's the best that could be hoped for.”

“Who was he?” Dougal said. “The old man...was he really a hunter?”

“His name is Glog Hawthorne,” Luna said, “a resident of Vanhoover. He's a retired patent clerk who lives with his daughter and grandchildren. Or at least he did, until his daughter and her husband reported him missing a week ago.”

“He's not a hunter?”

“No, but his grandfather apparently was,” Luna said. “One of the last, as it turns out. The Order of the Sunlit Thorns didn't so much disband as dissolve. Their concerted efforts over nine hundred years succeeded in wiping out Equestria's vampony population...”

“Or at least the ones that could be found,” Dougal said, raising a finger. “Vampires, in my experience, are notoriously difficult to exterminate.”

“I suppose,” Luna said, looking uneasily at the floor. “What matters is that they had fewer and fewer jobs to investigate, and so took fewer and fewer apprentices. The last known vampony was put down about a hundred years ago, and the Order eventually died out.”

“Meaning our Mr. Hawthorne was heir to an outdated lifestyle,” Dougal said, tapping the arm of his easy chair. “I got the impression this was a stallion who desperately wanted to live up to his legacy, but never could.” Dougal smiled slightly. “Until now that is, when he finds there's a vampire in Equestria. A vampire no one seems to want to do anything about. Was it moral outrage? Was it a desire to live up to the family legacy? Or was it an old man, desperate to make something of a life he feels was dull and unrewarding? Who knows?”

“We'll be looking into that soon, once I've had a chance to talk to him,” Luna said. “And I would appreciate you not belittle the poor stallion. You've done enough.”

“...yes, well put,” Dougal said, frowning. He gazed into the scarlet liquid in his glass. “I apologize, your highness.”

“Oh, it's alright,” Luna sighed, rubbing her brow. “It's been a long day, and now a long night.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“We're not sure,” Luna said. “Are you pressing charges?”

“I hadn't planned on it,” Dougal said, shrugging. “I already put the fear of God into him. I think he's learned his lesson.” He down the last of the glass's scarlet contents. “Ah. I would, however, like my guard to be reminded of their duty. This only happened because they wandered off on the job.”

“Oh don't worry,” Luna said sternly. “Those two soldiers will get a thorough reprimand. This will not happen again.”

“All's well that ends well, then.” Dougal sat the empty wine glass on the table. “On an unrelated topic, your highness, do you have plans for the Summer Sun Celebration?”