TIMING: Current SETTING: Some alley in Worm Row PARTIES: Casimira (@undeadchivalry) and Maxine (@twolittlefangs) SUMMARY: On her nightwatch, Casimira comes across Max in the alley, mid-meal. She arrives a moment too late, attempting to stir reason, decency, some spark of humanity—but it falls on deaf ears. That night, Casimira holds back. Maxine does not.
Some places die before the bodies in them do. Wicked’s Rest was one of them. The scent of iron pulled her from the main street, past the shuttered pharmacy and the dimly lit laundromat, into the kind of alley where lights flickered but never stayed lit. A place where the city could easily turn a blind eye. But not Casimira. She found them behind a dented dumpster, lit by a red and blue neon “Dry Cleaning” sign that buzzed incessantly. One body slumped against a wall—neck opened like butchered livestock. Still warm. Still twitching. The vampire didn’t stop when she arrived. Didn’t look up. Just turned toward the next one, trembling, cornered, clutching their side like they could keep their life from leaking out.
Casimira moved forward without haste, boots splashing softly in the alley’s puddles, like the steady toll of a bell calling silence over this bloody night. Her gauntlet traced a quick symbol through the air, a sharp, sudden flick of gold that struck like a gust of cold wind, pushing the vampire back half a stride. Not enough to harm, just enough to create space, to demand a decision. They are not beasts driven solely by hunger. The sigil’s wind wasn't hers, not really, but it moved as if it remembered being cast by her hand. She stepped forward into the space in full armor, her boots loud against the broken glass underneath her. Her shield came down hard, more for ritual than protection. The silver of her armor caught the neon’s glow. The blue and red flickering like stained glass. A fext needed neither shield nor steel, but grief wore armor well.
Between them, the silence was thick with the weight of lives taken and owed. Casimira’s voice fell like a benediction, steady and grave. “Tell me you knew what he was… that this was deserved.” She didn’t say or I’ll kill you. That threat had long left her language. Because Casimira had lived through worse things than vampires. Instead, she stood in front of the bleeding man and waited. But she had little patience left for monsters who killed without knowing why.
—
The simple truth: Max hated Wicked’s Rest. The only good club in town had been Dance Macabre, but over her many years of living, big city life had just always been her thing. It was easier for people to go missing and not be noticed. There was always something going on at night, and if you were staying in just the right building with no natural sunlight, fun could even be had during the day. But the only good thing that small towns held were the outskirts which meant plenty of room to hide bodies. You just had to get them outside city limits before Barney Fife rolled up to catch you on a speeding violation.
But tonight, Max needed something. She needed anything to keep her constantly wandering mind busy. BookTok wasn’t cutting it, and it seemed like the internet was just as dead as she was, which also meant no one to argue with over the dumbest things. So clubbing it was!
But clubbing had ended abruptly after a fight broke out between some humans. Not the smartest idea in a room full of mostly undead and blood thirsty vampires. But it was to Max’s advantage when the bouncer managed to toss both men out into the street where the fight continued on until it reached a back alley. And it had been even easier to follow them and linger in the shadows for just the right moment when in the blink of an eye and a few grunts later, one man had been stabbed and the other took off running past the unnoticed vampire.
“And Bingo was his name-o…” As Maxine slipped out of the shadows with nothing but glowing red eyes and a toothy grin revealing herself, she moved towards the man who was wounded inhaling the sweet scent of blood, until she was right up against him pushing him firmly into the wall. She could already sense death on him, and, at this point, knew she was doing him a favor, “See, fighting in a club like Dance Macabre just wasn’t the smartest thing on your part. But hey! It’s the circle of life, and I get it. These things just happen. But don’t worry, I promise this won’t hurt a bit. It’ll be like drifting off into a nice deep slumber, and you’ll never know the difference.”
Cocking her head to the side, she effortlessly shoved her fangs into him and began to drink while his body was getting weaker and colder, but Max was starting to get annoyed with the way he was trembling in fear and his system inching closer to shock, “Oh my fuck, quit trembling. You look like a chihuahua about to wet itself. I’m trying to have dinner here!” She had hoped she had gotten her point across with the tone of her words, but it was soon cut short by the realization that she was being shoved away from him.
With a sharp turn on her heels, Max let out a ferocious hiss in the direction of the person she felt behind her, only to be taken aback by who it actually was; while her dinner crumpled to the ground in an almost dead heap, “Well, well, well look what the undertaker drug in. Casimira, is that you? You’re looking rough.” Maxine licked the stray blood from her lips and enjoyed its taste, before retracting her fangs.
—
Casimira’s hold on the shield relaxed. The weight of it settled against her side with the faint grind of metal on metal. Her stance didn’t shift much, but the tilt of her head, the slight softening around her eyes, betrayed a flicker of recognition. “Maxine,” she said, like she was confirming something she’d suspected but hoped she was wrong about. Her voice carried the kind of tired calm that followed after long nights and longer regrets. “Didn’t recognize you with so little carnage. Growing up, are we?”
Behind her, the wounded man gave a soft, wet gasp before collapsing, the sound echoing off the alley walls with a pitiful finality. Casimira didn’t flinch. She cast one brief glance over her shoulder, just enough to verify what the sound had already told her. So much for saving him. Casimira exhaled and reached her gauntlet out, fingers curling in a practiced motion. A thin trail of gold sparked through the air–the sigil for return, drawn with the reverence of an old prayer.. Her shield, still humming faintly with leftover heat, flickered as if indecisive. It didn’t vanish smoothly.
Instead, it sputtered, light stammering in place, metal phasing out piece by piece like a bad connection. The spell caught halfway through, paused, then jolted. A sharp jolt of recoil ran up her arm, and with a grunt, she steadied her stance. Her gauntlet hissed—overloaded—and part of the armor along her forearm shimmered briefly before being absorbed too. That wasn’t the plan. Casimira clenched her jaw. Magic had been utterly horrid as of late and she didn’t know why.
She shook out her arm, rotating her wrist with a wince as the gauntlet hissed and settled again. Then, deadpan, she added, “Don’t ask me to do that twice.” She took a few strides to get near Maxine—not afraid of the young vampire. “And here I thought I might get one night without needing to clean up after you.” Her words were low, like the muttering of a judgment meant only for the sinner in front of her.
—
Throughout her travels, which seemed like a long time, but in the grander scheme of things, wasn’t, she had come across many different people and creatures and out of all of them, only one had left a truly bad taste in her mouth. A taste of pure and utter hot, rotting garbage in the midst of a dumpster fire, and that was Casimira. The woman just had a way of getting under Max’s skin and making her feel like she was constantly being scolded for just trying to live her life. So when the fext had revealed herself, Max couldn’t help but tense up in disgust, even if she had just greeted her with a smile. Performance was everything after all.
However, apparently not for Casimira as Max crossed her arms and leaned back onto the brick wall her meal had just slid down and watched the magic show that seemed to pop, fizzle, and then fail miserably, “Hmmm, not much in way of insults…huh there, Cas. I mean, did you have one too many to drink? Because the magic show tonight just isn’t on point.” She narrowed her eyes and stroked her chin giving the pitiful performance thought, “Hey! Wait a minute! I know…maybe you could try pulling a rabbit out of your ass and see if that’s any better, because your big grand finale of resurrecting the dead just ain’t happening tonight is it?” As a power move just to further piss off Cas, Max took the two fingers she was just stroking her chin with and ran it down the trail of blood that lingered on the bricks, before sucking it off of her fingers somewhat mockingly and seductively.
—
The vulgarities were expected from Maxine. Casimira let them roll off her like rain on steel. While the vampire could certainly try, it would take a sharper tongue to pierce the armor Cas had forged through centuries of self-loathing and restraint. No insult Max flung could touch her deeper than the words she’d once carved into herself. Her eyes trailed the slick bloodline down the wall, following it to Max’s mouth, then her eyes. A silent acknowledgement. She had seen it. She simply chose not to react—not with disgust, not with desire. If there was something in the gesture meant to provoke, Cas met it with the discipline of an oath-bound knight.
“If I attempted resurrection, the poor soul would face far worse horrors than what you’ve just subjected him to,” she said dryly, gaze steady. “And I doubt even he would be so cruel as to deserve that.” She didn’t add that she wouldn’t have done it even if she could. Resurrection was messy, reckless… more ego than mercy. The true work was keeping death at bay long enough to make it matter.
There was something familiar in the way Maxine behaved, albeit louder, more colorful, more brash, but still familiar. A need to distract from damage. A refusal to be pitied. Casimira had worn grief like armor, and Max, wore arrogance like perfume—two masks fashioned to conceal the same rot beneath.
—
Casimira had ruined Max’s evening and had made it all about morals and right and wrong, “Did you literally just come here to rain on my parade, Cas? Because I’m sure there’s a lot more people out there doing a lot worse things than I am. Or is it because you’ve secretly got a tingle going on underneath that full body armor of yours. I would say an itch that needs to be scratched, but you might want to get some cream for that…”
With a loud sigh, and a roll of her eyes, Maxine left the alley in the hopes of getting away from the killjoy, hoping something else would catch her eye for the evening leaving Max to find another poor sucker of a soul to drain the life out of. And while she did have people on standby, Bella Swan and Mateo’s girlfriend, the idea of plucking someone new out of the many dumb humans residing in Wicked’s Rest had sounded more fun, especially the ones who didn’t know what she was; the pure terror on their faces being a little treat when she took that first bite.
—
Casimira was right on Maxine’s heels, the clang of her armor echoing against the concrete, ringing out like a bell tolling after judgment. “I didn’t come for you,” Casimira said plainly. “I happened upon you by chance. And I was too late.” To Casimira, human lives still mattered. They were fleeting things, all the more precious because of it. But that didn’t mean she was blind to the grief, trauma, or pain carried by other beings. She had once been something else too. Something worse.
Maxine was bloodthirsty. Selfish. A monster, by some accounts. But Casimira didn’t strike her down like one. Not yet. They had all been human once. Moral compasses got lost with time, but they could be found again—slowly, painfully. Casimira had found hers buried deep within guilt and grief. It had taken time. And she had all the time in the world to be patient for someone else to find their’s. She knew she wouldn’t save every life Max threatened. Couldn’t. That truth had worn her thin over the years. But tonight, these humans weren’t the ones she was trying to reach. If Max wanted to play the monster, Cas would be there to remind her someone was still watching.
—
Maxine could feel Casimira’s presence lingering behind her. It was like the shadow she had never asked for, and she just wanted to enjoy the rest of her evening. But how could she when she was being watched like a hawk, “If you didn’t come for me, then why are you still following me?” Her voice was low and held more than enough annoyance to last a lifetime. But something in it turned sugary sweet and sinister, “Oh, wait…I get it. You like watching me murder people. It’s a turn on. You just act too pure to admit it to yourself.” Max knew that wasn’t the case with Cas, but any way she could get under her skin, the vampire was at least going to try, and as she remained with her sights in front of her, she laid eyes on her next victim.
Picking up the pace, the vampire had noticed a man stumbling around. He looked lost or at least in enough of a drunken stupor that her taking complete advantage of him would be easy enough. Max may have missed out on a slew of people where she had been conveniently located, but the night was still young, and paying no mind to Cas behind her, she met up with her new meal, “Hey! Are you okay? Do you need some help?” With a sickly sweet grin, she quickly glanced back over her shoulder, before once again feigning concern for the man now nearly in front of her.
—
Casimira let her talk. That was often the case—Max spitting curses and vulgarities while Cas only breathed deep and let it wash over her. It was difficult to say why, of all the reckless beings this century, Maxine was the one she chose to be a thorn in her side. She wasn’t the first, and she wouldn’t be the last. Some she had managed to steady. Others… others she’d been forced to put down herself, when the hunger grew too wild, when they refused to believe there could be anything more than the Hunger. It was never an easy decision to make.
“Maxine,” Casimira said, her tone laced with a tired frustration, as if the name alone might anchor her to logic, to humanity. It rarely did. “Leave the gentleman be.” She moved forward, intercepting just as the man stumbled back against a lamppost. Her hand found Maxine’s shoulder—not force, only a gentle break in fixation. The other slipped into her robe, not for the sword, but for a blood bag. She pressed it lightly against the vampire’s chest.
“Reconsider. Please.” Casimira had no wish to cross blades with her. Max was still young. Still capable of guidance, if she would take it. Not everyone got that chance, sometimes Casimira arrived too late. And yes, the simplest thing would be to drive a blade through her heart, but what good was Casimira if she was nothing more than a hammer treating the world as nails? That was the work of hunters and slayers—creatures of cruelty. She was something else, bound by duty and honor.
—
Max heard her full name, before feeling a hand on her shoulder, which caused a loud sigh and an eye roll so hard, she felt like her eyes would roll on out of her head. However, the bloodbag she felt against her chest only caused her to rear her fangs as she let the pre-made meal in a goody bag, drop to the ground. And without waiting another second, the vampire dashed forward and latched onto the man’s warm, sweaty skin as she began to take in the crimson liquid leaking from his veins. But she stopped short of draining him to the point where he could no longer stand. And when she retracted her fangs, she glared at Casimira with bright red eyes and a sinister smirk that was lightly coated in the man’s blood.
“Tastes like one too many drinks and regret.” Licking her lips, she leaned forward and picked up the blood bag, before skipping down the street with the energy of a small child, “You’re too good to me, Cas. Dessert to go along with dinner. I don’t know where you got the bag from, but I wouldn’t mind having those delivered to my house sometime. I’m sure you know where I live.” At that point Max didn’t care whether Cas followed her or not.
—
Casimira hadn’t expected the blood bag to be taken, not so soon. Max was still too young. But youth didn’t mean surrender, and restraint didn’t make her weak. In a flash, Max was gone, already behind her, feeding. Her eyes slowly shut before she turned to face them. Her gaze shifted to the man still conscious, though barely. Two paths opened: chase Max with force, or tend to the human who might not see tomorrow. She had already failed one of those tonight.
Casimira didn’t follow Max. Not tonight. Not with a creature she had no need to strike, and no desire to test. She’d seen her share of killers—bloodthirsty, reckless, and dead before their time. She knew the darkness they carried; she knew it well in herself. Casimira knelt beside him, voice even, firm. “You’ll be alright,” she said, fingers pressing against the bite. Blood rose, and in its sheen, she traced a sigil—not to heal, not to ease his fear, but to seal the wound with her control. Heat flared beneath her gauntlet and the marks of fangs blurred to something unrecognizable, cauterized.
Max would take her time. But time was hers too. She could wait. Patience was a tool sharper than any blade, and the dark she’d carried for centuries told her anyone—even Max—could be tempered.
