MAKE YOUR CASE

	There, on that pedestal, the bottle waits.

	Those last few droplets of distilled hunger cling to the grim runes carved into teardrop-shaped bottle. A moonless sky’s gloom drenches it in the vibrant crimsons and blues through that towering stained glass window, highlighting it among the complete darkness of the rest of your room. All candles out, all lanterns off, you wait in the shadows for it.

	Each tick of the clocktower brought greater anxiety, as the hour hand approached midnight. You can try to hide in the shadows as much as you want, but you know it would not conceal you from ARATHOA’s sight, no matter how comforting they felt. You wind yourself up in your finery, tug your legs to your chest and sit like a child trying to keep yourself as small as possible, in the tiniest hope that your angry parent might not spot you quivering in the corner of your room.

	CLANG.

	The bell rings, and within its first strike, so too do your ears as ARATHOA’s presence blossoms into your perception like the most vile and toxic flower of all. ARATHOA’s towering, sickly form in repose among that horrific aura. Creeping in an instant across every surface in the room, that harrowing distortion blinds you for a moment as your brain desperately seeks order, something to make of ARATHOA beyond a black silhouette, something to make of the fact that it even exists. Your limbs devolve into weighty static, and your eyes fix onto ARATHOA, using its floating, menacing visage as some form of anchor in a sea of eldritch visions.

	“THE DEED IS DONE?” it ‘asks’, not so much speaking as ramming its question directly into your mind, a shock of pain streaking down your skull. You cover your eyes and cradle your head as you feel its gaze on you, knowing that it knows.

	“Y… yes. I have done as you asked,” you mutter impotently.

	“NO, YOU HAVE NOT.” Its non-voice buzzes in your head and nauseates you with terror, aware of its disappointment and what that means. “STAND BEFORE ME, VAMPIRE.”

	You drag yourself to your feet on limp, trembling legs, your hands never leaving your eyes. Its presence only gets more blinding and unbearable as it grows angry, its inextricable wrongness seeping through your fingers and burning them as if you were facing them towards the summer sun.

	“WE HAVE WITNESSED YOUR WORK. YOU DELIBERATELY SABOTAGED YOURSELF. YOU DISTILLED THE POTION INCORRECTLY AND DISTRIBUTED IT ONLY AMONG THE NOBILITY’S WATER SYSTEM.”

	“I believed that source supplied the entire town!” you protest, however shakily so.

	“THEN PERHAPS YOU ARE MORE USELESS THAN WE THOUGHT.” Before you can pry your unwilling hands from your eyes, you feel ARATHOA’s cold, unfathomable grip seize you by the throat. By the time you have processed that fact, you can feel the thick, stained glass shattering against your back as ARATHOA slams you through it, your hands clasping desperately to its all while your eyes avert desperately from its lack thereof. It hangs you high over the city, and though you cannot open your eyes lest they be burned from your skull by ARATHOA’s rage, you can feel the depth beneath your feet as they kick weakly.

	“MAKE YOUR CASE, VAMPIRE.”

	Your voice catches in your constricted throat, and your hands twitch and tighten about ARATHOA’s wrists. You pry one back, as a glimmer begins to collect in its palm. ARATHOA regards your movements with disinterest, its pointed claws digging deeper with every passing moment that you don’t speak… until it hears you begin to mutter.

	Before it can realize what is happening, you reel your palm back and hurl a blast of scouring light directly into ARATHOA’s face, and for a brief second you feel its heat contend with and reject ARATHOA’s aura, sending it stumbling back into your room as it drops you.

	You plummet, towards the gorgeous garden courtyard below, cold night air racing against your undead skin. Unfurling from your back are immense wings of shadowy feather, which beat heavily against the wind, against your weight, until you slowly come to a halt just inches from the ground. In full view of a smattering of confused nobles, you soar back to your window.

	There, you see it. Arathoa rests on its knees, its aura much weaker, though still there. It slowly lifts itself to its feet, bright white burns seared into its face as it looks at you. For once, you can stare it in the face without feeling creeping terror.

	“Impressive,” it speaks, with a voice outside of your head, though just as before it still slips from your fingers the moment you try to analyze its features, and you are only left with the content of what it has said, and not the voice that said it.

	“If you want my allegiance, demon, then you treat me like an ally!” you speak. Your voice wavers, but the defiance is evident nonetheless; you see two eyes crack open on Arathoa’s face, looking at you with… intrigue, for once. In under a second, you feel ARATHOA’s blade rammed through your chest; as depthlessly black as the rest of it, the needle-like blade hooks into you with a thousand imperceptible barbs, and coaxes a tar-like substance from your veins. With the blade, it tears you back into the window, and with a flick of its wrist as if you weigh nothing at all, you are sent skidding across the floor of your darkened room and back into the shadows where you once hid.

	“YOUR CONFIDENCE IS NOTED, CYRIL. WE WILL RETURN WITH ANOTHER CONTRACT IN DUE TIME. REFLECT ON YOUR PRIORITIES IN THE INTERVENING TIME.” ARATHOA commands. With another flick of the wrist, a blinding flash of light occurs as its blade rends some form of rift into the world, and by the time you regain your sight, it is gone and you are all alone once again.

	You stay there, lying across the ground as the wound slowly seals up, as they always do. Despite the state you’ve ended up in, a sort of weight seems to lift from your shoulders; a small victory against a seemingly unbeatable opponent, just this one time.