Outsider's Game: Night King

by Bluecho

13 - Stars And Seas

Ch. 13 - Stars And Seas

---

July 1958

“Hi.”

The girl flinched, looking over her shoulder. Her eyes widened. “Bah!” she squeaked.

Dougal displayed his hands. “Sorry, sorry, it's just me,” he said, waving. “I'm not here to drag you back. I'm just here to talk.”

The Tzimisce girl stared at him a moment, then turned back towards the water. She leaned forward, hands in her lap. Her legs, caked in mud, dangled over the ledge where she sat.

“...mind if I sit down?” Dougal asked softly. “You...look awfully lonely.”

“...mmm...” the girl grunted, shuffling her shoulders.

Dougal took a seat beside her, a meter apart. The concrete felt cool to the touch, at odds with the balmy summer air. The Lasombra looked out over the water, letting the sea breeze waft over him. Listened to the waves. Watched the moonlight reflected on the surf. The sight and sounds and smell of the sea...they comforted Dougal in a way he couldn't explain. As if some deep, primordial part of his blood – salty liquid of life – called out to the briny ocean.

Perhaps there was something to be said of Homer's wine-dark sea.

He looked over at the girl. “Nice night, huh?”

The girl stared at the ocean, then mumbled vaguely in assent.

“...do you have somewhere to stay?” Dougal asked. He looked at her jacket pockets. Saw the dirt stains, like lip stick around the openings. “...I see you've figured out the dirt thing. Have you been sleeping well?”

She fidgeted her fingers, then nodded tersely.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“...how did you...find me?” the girl said, her voice weak.

“...we figured you wouldn't leave town,” Dougal said. “Not that it would have been safe to. Get too far into the wilderness, and you enter wolf country.”

“...wolf country...?” She peeked sideways a bit.

“It's not important right now...”

“Are you...here to take me back?” the girl said, looking back to the sea. “D-did...she send you?”

“...no, she didn't...” Dougal said. “...what do you want to do?”

She shook her head, first slowly, then frantically. “I don't know...” she breathed. Her hands clutched at her skirt. Her eyes were clasped shut.

Dougal noted the rusty red trails dribbled from her mouth. Smelled the pungent odor. A dry but exquisite aroma. “...we also followed the trail of...bodies...”

She choked back a sob. “...I didn't mean to...I c-couldn't...” She hugged her sides, contorting her face in agony.

“Shh...” Dougal said, hand hovering indecisively towards her, “...it's okay...” Finally he let the hand drop. “...we've...we've all lost a few. It just...happens...”

“B-but I tried...I t-tried...” the girl said. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Beads of scarlet blood issues from the corners of her eyes.

“...you tried to avoid feeding?”

She sobbed. “Mm-hmm...” The girl wiped her eye with the back of her hand.

“That doesn't work,” Dougal said. “Starving yourself only makes it worse...but...” He laced his fingers together, staring at them in his lap. “...but I suppose you already know that.”

The girl nodded, then started licking the back of her hand. She stopped, staring wide-eyed at the tongue-trails in the vitae on her hand. She cringed, shaking her head. “...oh God...I'm a monster...”

Dougal said nothing. Just stared out at the waves.

For a while the two just sat there. The girl sobbed quietly, face in her hands. Dougal thought back to the prostitute with the mole on her face.

Eventually, the girl's crying subsided. She sniffed, looking up. The moon hung over the horizon, and the light reflected off her eyes. Her face was a bloody mess. “...what...w-what happens now...?”

Dougal tapped his knee. “Do you have friends around here?”

The girl looked down, frowning. She sniffed again. “...I...I can't...let them see me...” Her body shuddered. “...not like this...”

“Mom? Dad? Brothers and sisters?”

“...my dad, and my grandparents,” she said, “my cousin, too. I'm not sure if they've been looking for me.”

“They probably have,” Dougal said. “You're lucky to have family out there, even if...even if you can't visit them.”

“...you don't have family?” the Tzimisce said, looking over at him.

“My parents both died before...well, this,” Dougal said, motioning to himself. “Anyway, you don't want to visit yours?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. “...do I have to come back? To...to her?” The girl bit her lip, touching her face. “I don't want to...to do that to my face. To anyone's face. I don't want to do the kinds of things she did to herself. I...I don't want to...to change myself anymore...”

“Well, you won't have to worry about that,” Dougal said, gazing with longing at the water. “Your sire is dead.”

The young Fiend stared at the water, then jerked her heads towards the young Keeper. “What!?” the girl exclaimed, eyes wide.

Dougal sighed. It was a habit he hadn't indulged in quite a while. “That's actually why I'm here, now,” Dougal said. “As opposed to being your sire, back in those woods, last month.”

“...she's dead?” the girl said, mouth hanging open.

“When we had you embraced, it was for a purpose,” Dougal said. The nature of that purpose – sacrifice as nothing but a pawn – he spoke not a word of. “You and the other fledglings were supposed to help us kill an enemy of the Sabbat. But our time table was moved up, so we couldn't come looking for you. We bit off more than we could chew. Now it's just you, me, and Lance back there.”

The girl followed the Lasombra's pointing thumb. Spotted the Ventrue Antitribu in the distance, leaning against a flickering lamp post, watching the road.

She turned back to Dougal. “...everyone...everyone died?”

“Yes.”

“Is...is it because I wasn't there?” She frowned, hands clutching against her chest nervously.

Dougal looked over at the fledgling. He paused, eyes taking her in. “You? No.” He looked back towards the water. “It's obvious you don't have a warrior's bone in your body. No, you'd be dead.”

The girl jerked back, blinking. Then she looked back down. “I...I guess that's true.”

“Don't take it personally.”

“Do you still want me back?”

“If you want,” Dougal said. “It's...hard out there, for a fledgling. The streets are harsh, and survival is by no means guaranteed.

“Now, I'm not saying you have to join with us,” he continued. “You've seen some of what the Sabbat is, and how it operates. It's a harsh existence – and may be a brief one. We fight a war, here.”

“A war?”

He nodded. “That's right. The Sabbat is embroiled in an eternal crusade against another sect, the Camarilla.” Dougal looked over his shoulder, eyes on the Ventrue. Saw the latter wasn't looking towards them. “...don't tell Lance, but you could always defect to their side. They aren't as militant, the Camarilla. Not as suicidally crazed.” He looked the girl in the eyes. “But don't be confused, despite being more humane than the Sabbat, the Camarilla is not nice. They are monsters through and through. They just like to pretend they aren't. Or so I've heard.” He glanced out at the moon. “You could always make a break for a Camarilla controlled city, bow before its Prince, and try to make a respectable unlife for yourself.

“...except you're at a distinct disadvantage.”

“I am?” the girl said, blinking.

“Yes. You're a Tzimisce.”

“Oooooh...” she said, clutching her head, “that's what she said! What does that even mean!?”

“It's your clan,” Dougal said, “your lineage.” He pointed at her. “You carry the blood of the Tzimisce,” he said. He pointed to himself. “Just as I carry the blood of Lasombra.” He pointed back towards Lance. “Just as he carries the blood of Ventrue. You are a Tzimisce, just like your sire, and her sire before her. I'm not a Tzimisce, so I can't teach you what that means. I only know what my sire told me about your Clan. I do know this, though: the Tzimisce and the Lasombra are the pillars of the Sabbat. Always have been, always shall be. So even though the Camarilla claims all children of Caine under their rule, they despise us. Despise the Tzimisce, and the Lasombra.”

Dougal watched the sea. “There are Lasombra in the Camarilla, I'm told,” he said. “Antitribu – those who work against their own Clan – who chose the Camarilla rather than the Sabbat. There are not many, though, and Clan Lasombra hunts them relentlessly as blood traitors. So even were I to defect, I would not find the Lasombra Antitribu. They hide too well in the shadows, like any proper Lasombra. They have to.” He turned back to her. “But you have it worse, for according to my sire there are no Tzimisce in the Camarilla. Period. I don't know exactly why, but your Clan and all its disparate members will not have anything to do with that sect. If they aren't in the Sabbat, the Tzimisce are loners and apolitical.

“If you try to join the Camarilla, you will have no friends. You will be alone against elders willing to kill you for what you are. Elders for whom Tzimisce and Sabbat are synonymous.”

The girl frowned, then looked out towards the water. She pulled her legs up, hugging them close to her chest. Her chin rested on her knees. She shut her eyes.

Dougal frowned too. “...look, I'm sorry,” he said. “None of this is your fault. You didn't ask for this. I know that feeling. And it seems like everywhere you turn, your options aren't options at all. I know this is hard...”

“...what do you want?” the girl mumbled. She turned to him, cheek pressed into her knees. “Why do you do what you do? You don't sound like a monster.”

For a half a minute, Dougal sat in place, mouth half-open. “...I want to move forward.”

The girl pondered this for a moment, turning to the sea. “...if I join...the Sabbat...what will I have to do?”

“I won't make you do anything you don't want to,” Dougal said. “I can't speak for Lance, but I get the impression so long as you don't betray us, he'll be fine with whatever. He's...stiff, and he's not exactly an outstandingly moral person, but he is an honorable one. And I think he believes in the Sabbat ideal of freedom. It's one of the things the Sabbat has going for it: you can be whatever Vampire you want to be...except a traitor, of course.”

“Will I have to kill people?”

“...I won't say you won't have to,” Dougal said, “nor can I say you won't. But you know that already.” He rubbed the concrete beneath him. “Still, Lance and I have talked it over. We aren't really interested in death or destruction for their own sake.”

“...so I won't have to...change my face?”

“No. No one's going to make you act like her.” Dougal laughed. “Tell you the honest truth, I never liked the crone anyway.”

“...what was he name?”

“Hmm? Don't know, actually. She changed her name a lot, something about having a malleable identity. We just called her the Crone. I think the name was something significant, but I never learned what.” The Lasombra shrugged. “Speaking of, I never did catch yours. My name is Dougal.”

The girl smiled slightly. “Um...my name is Nora.”

“Nora...” Dougal smiled too. “I like it,” he said. “It's a lovely name.”

“It's an old name,” Nora said, speaking into her knees. “But thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Dougal said. He climbed to his feet. “Then I guess we should get going.” He got two feet before stopping. “And hey kid...Nora...”

“Huh?” Nora said, looking up. Then she squeaked, a big hand landing gently on her head. She peeked out from under it as the hand tussled her hair.

“Don't worry,” Dougal said, smiling down on her. “Things get better.” He walked away.

The Tzimisce girl sat there on the ledge for a few seconds, bewildered. Then Nora rose to her feet frantically. “Hey! Hey, wait up!”

---

Present

“After the others died, Lance and I rebuilt the pack. And we rebuilt it our way.”

Dougal Dempsey looked at the monarchs intently. “Every other pack in the Sabbat was a wild, uncontrollable mob. We acted with purpose.”

“What kind of purpose?” asked Princess Luna.

“Various kinds, though the commonality was advancing goals. Lance, being Ductus, preferred to fight the Jyhad, and that meant taking the fight to the Camarilla. It just so happened that a couple other members also had reason to want to fight them. I personally just wanted to keep us on task, and stop the others from spiraling down in degeneration. Others had more scholarly pursuits, and we took time out to advance those. Mostly, though, we were agents against the Camarilla. When a crusade was called, we came in to help. To fight. And while the sieges didn't always succeed – in fact they often fell apart once the initial momentum was spent – we did a lot of damage to the sect's enemies.

“We went along that for thirty years.”

“Thirty years,” Twilight Sparkle said, whistling. “Wow. I mean, I suppose for immortal creatures it would be a drop in the bucket, right?”

“The average unlife expectancy of a Sabbat pack is roughly five years,” Dougal said.

“Oh.” Twilight's eyes opened a little wider. “Ooooooh. Oh, that's...that's impressive then.”

“I am honestly not surprised an organization that one you've described has such a high turnover,” Luna said. She looked down at the floor. “Not that I like such a senseless loss of life...unlife. Nor indeed do I think I like the idea of what sort of damage a complete monster could do in five years...” Luna looked accusingly at the vampire. “Makes me wonder what sort of damage you and your associates could do in thirty.”

“More than I would have liked,” Dougal said, shutting his eyes briefly. “Yet thankfully less than could be expected from an average pack. That was, in fact, what made us both well and poorly regarded. Our peers – such that they were – did not appreciate a group of stuffy, serious Cainites that didn't see much amusement in wanton destruction and terrorizing the local mortal population. We made up for it by proving our courage and skill. But the easiest time we had was merely by staying out of the way.”

“What finally happened?” Luna asked.

“Hmm?”

“You say your pack went on like that for thirty years,” Luna said. “You also say you betrayed the Sabbat. How did you get from one to the other?”

Dougal paused for a moment, allowing scattered thoughts to build in his mind. He breathed in and out. That luxury habit indulged again. “...sooner or later, one's good luck runs out,” he said. “We made a mistake...a poor choice of targets...”

Knock, knock.

“Excuse me...”

The door cracked open. The waitress peeked inside. “Um, your highnesses,” she said, sheepishly, “um...”

“Yes?” Luna said, cocking an eyebrow at the mare.

“It's...uh...about last call,” the waitress said, looking furtively at the floor. “We could keep the place open, if you still need some time...”

Luna tapped her hoof against the hardwood floor. “...no, I apologize,” the princess said. “We're just about finished here. We'll be right out.”

“Ah!” the mare said, then nodded. “Okay, thank you! I'll...uh...get your bill ready...” Her voice trailed off as she ducked back out.

Twilight yawned. “...oh my, it really is late, isn't it?” she said, rubbing her eyelid. “The others are probably already back at the hotel, worried about me.” She smiled at Dougal. “Not that I don't find your story fascinating, Mr. Dougal!”

“What?” Dougal said, shaking his head and returning his attention from the middle distance. “Oh, thank you...”

Luna sighed.

“...I could finish my story in the carriage,” Dougal said, “if that's alright with your highness.”

“...no, that won't be necessary,” Luna said, rising from her sitting position on the floor. Her back popped softly as she stretched. “Ugh...tonight as been a long one, and I...need to return to my lodgings. To think on what I've learned here. Come along, Twilight.”

“Right,” Twilight said, making towards the door. Emptied glasses levitated along with her as she walked. She headed out the door.

Luna turned to Dougal, who was just getting up and stretching himself. “Mr. Dempsey.”

“Yes, your highness?” Dougal said, one eye shut, his arms over his head.

“One last thing...I have my own suspicions,” Luna said, “given your choice of words, what happened to the rest of your pack. You...have my condolences.”

Dougal said nothing, cupping his hands behind his back.

“...that is how it is, is it not?”

“...it was ten years ago, or thereabouts,” Dougal said finally. “Really, it was amazing we'd lasted so long utterly intact, leading the unlives we did.”

“And when they were gone, you parted ways with the Sabbat?”

“...I was...tired...” Dougal said, looking away. “Truthfully, I was tired of the work – of the crusade – almost immediately. But...they made it bearable. I had somewhere I belonged, despite having no permanent home or family. When they were gone...” He raised his hand to block the overhead light bulb, watching the silhouette of his fingers dance. “...there was nothing in the sect – in the whole Jyhad – for me. I was...so tired...”

He looked back to the Princess. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?” he said.

“A great many things,” Luna said, sighing. She shook her head. “But I know more than anyone that among the long-lived and active, there's paradoxically never enough time for all the stories of our lives.” She looked the vampire directly in the eyes. “I just need to know one thing,” Luna said, frowning. “Will you leave your past behind? Have you abandoned the monster you were? Dougal Dempsey...can I trust you to not harm my people?”

It did not even merit a pause for consideration. “Yes,” Dougal said, flatly. “My past is dead.”

The image of the blood-stained golden dagger flashed in Luna's mind. She felt trepidation, her heart fluttering.

She was looking at a Vampire. A parasite upon the living, and a consummate liar by nature. That he spoke when past vampires she'd met did not comforted her little.

It could all be an elaborate lie. A story concocted to play to her sympathies.

Yet...damn her for a fool, but it didn't fit. She couldn't buy such a scenario, and the deliberate risks it put him into were it true. No matter how much easier it would be for her.

Luna sighed. “Fine, we're done here,” she said. “But I'm still watching you.” She raised her hoof, pointing first at her own eyes, then at Dougal. “Are we clear?”

Dougal tilted his head, then smirked. “Hm hm...crystal, your highness.”

---

“Oh there you are, darling. Do you even know what time it is?”

Twilight Sparkle stepped into the darkened hotel room. She was positively beaming. “Oh, sorry for waking you, Rarity.” Twilight whispered. “Yeah, we...kind of got sidetracked...”

Rarity rubbed her eye, yawning. Pushed just over her eyes was a sleep mask, a lock of frazzled hair draped over it. The unicorn blinked at the halfway light, then moved to shut the door. “Oh, it's quite alright. So – briefly, because I need my beauty sleep – how was the play? I'm so jealous we couldn't go.” Not that the afternoon and evening were a waste. Shopping, the Baltimare Museum of Art, a Pinkie Pie misadventure, dinner at a prestigious waterfront restaurant...

“The play was lovely,” Twilight said. “Very interesting narrative structure. Experimental. Ten minutes, forty seconds – I timed it naturally – of an actress slow motion cutting a pie.” She levitated her bags in front of the untouched bed near the window. She shook her head. “But that wasn't even the best part of tonight!”

“Well, you'll have to tell me all about it in the morning, dear,” Rarity said, hopping back in bed. “It's dreadfully late, so try to get some sleep. We have a full day tomorrow. Good night.”

“Oh Rarity, I can't sleep now!” Twilight said, shaking giddily as she parked herself on the edge of her bed. “I'm too excited.”

“And why's...yawn...that, darling...?” Rarity mumbled, lowering the sleep mask and planting her head on the pillow.

“Because...” Twilight said, looking out the window at the city lights. She grinned from ear to ear. “I think I just found my new case study!”

---

Weak.

Dougal sat in his bedroom, seated in his reading chair. In his hand he swirled a wine glass. The pungent aroma wafted towards his nose.

The Lasombra sipped the concoction. Cold. He was not unfamiliar with cold blood, a taste he was growing more used to. He recalled a previous experience. Remembered biting into the body of a dead vagrant, claimed by the numbing winter night beneath a Chicago overpass. A vivid memory it was, for the cold, for the bitter taste of chilled vitae. For the light of a fire cast not twenty feet away, enjoyed by other bums. For the furtive attempt to remain hidden amid the garbage, and for the confusion on why his victim had never sought the warmth of the oil drum flame.

Like a shard lodged in his mind, the memory would not come loose. Would not go down, and be forgotten.

Weak.

Dougal scowled, rubbing his temple. Took another swig. Let the gulp of pony blood – bought with bits – rest in his mouth. Swallowed the liquid in increments.

Tasted of the ground. Of growing things. Earth pony. Dougal was getting better at identifying them by taste.

The guards on duty on the opposite wall were earth pony. Were warm, too.

Prey.

Dougal squeezed the arm of the chair. Shook his head. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

He thought of them. Lance. Nora. Siobhan. Mason. Randel.

Pathetic.

The Lasombra gritted his teeth.

Traitor.

He breathed in. Out. Forced himself to relax his grip on the wine glass. Dougal rubbed his forehead.

Watched the blood swirl around in the glass. Pitch black was the room, not even a single lamp on. But he could watch it, his vision inverted so that light was dark and dark was light. The world was as a photo negative, and he used it to study the blood in his hand.

Dougal remembered himself, as he was so long ago.

Disappointment.

“Shut up!” he roared, rising to his feet and chucking the glass away.

Crash.

It exploded against the wall, shattering into a million pieces and painting the cream-colored plaster scarlet. Little streaks of blood ran down the surface to the molding.

The keeper clutched his head, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes. “Shut. Up.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“What's going on in there?” came the voice of one of the guards.

Breath in. Breath out. Dougal allowed his hands to drop to his side. He stared at the stained wall, the ruined wine glass. The wasted blood.

He sighed. “Sorry, sorry,” he called out. “It's nothing.”

Dougal resolved that he'd need to get the cleaning supplies. For the moment, he simply stared at the pointless mess he'd made.

Weak.

---

“Wayfare! Wayfare, wake up!”

The stallion started awake. “Ugh...wha? Whatizzit?” he slurred, blinking.

“Wayfare,” the unicorn mare said, leaning over to him, “I-I think I heard something from downstairs.”

The stallion blinked, then said groggily, “Ugh...are you su-”

Crash.

“Honey, I think someone is in the house!” the mare whispered, her ears flapping and turning rapidly. They flattened against her head. “Wayfare, I'm scared.”

The stallion patted his wife on the cheek, nodding. “Stay here,” he said. He rolled over, sliding off the bed. His hoof caught the chain on the reading lamp and switched it on. The room was bathed in a soft yellow light. The stallion walked quietly over to a wall and picked a baseball bat in his mouth.

He glanced over to his wife, then slipped through the bedroom door.

The mare sat in bed, heart racing. She followed the retreating sound of floorboards squeaking beneath her husband's hooves. She trained her ears, but the sounds were muffled by distance and walls.

Crash. Shuffling and banging. The sound of...popping. A strangled cry rang out. A thud.

“Oh sweet Celestia...” the mare whispered, forehooves planted over her mouth. Sweat ran down her brow, matting her dark fur.

Hoof-steps. The squeaking of many floorboards.

The mare held her breath.

Bam!

Inward the bedroom door swung, slamming against the wall.

Four figures stood in the doorway.

“Eek!” the mare exclaimed.

Two cloaked figures rushed inside the room, parting to either side. They were burly ponies. The third figure stepped inside, levitating a ball with a cord trailing from it. The cord ended in an irregular, pointed stone, arrowhead in shape. Spinning on the string, the stone settled with finality, pointing towards the mare.

“That's a match,” said the figure in the center. She pointed towards the mare in the bed. “Take her.” Beneath that hood, the mare's eyes flashed a sickly green.

The bedside lamp flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

“Aaaaaaaaah!”