Darkness in the Reflection
The stone floor of Vandel's apartment bathing room was cold and unforgiving, drawing the heat from the pads of his feet as he stepped out of the marble bath. Water streaked across his refreshed skin and beaded at the tips of his hair and fingers, plummeting in heavy droplets to splatter on the floor. The orange-maned man reached for his towel hanging on a stand next to him, bringing it first to his face and then methodically to the rest of his form. He took time to dab at every patch of skin that still felt damp, his calmed breath indicative of the peace he felt deep within him. His hair was next to be dried. Painstaking attention was given to caring for those fiery strands as he walked across the chilled tile to stand before a gold trimmed oval mirror hung upon the wall. Gazing deeply into the reflection, his mind began to wander.
"You don't have to do this..!" A woman's voice spoke in a hushed plea. "Anything. Anything save for this. Please..." A blade was clutched firmly in his left hand, while the other was clamped around her tender neck. Her auburn curls jerked with her feeble attempts to shake free of him. Her back was pinned against the unwashed wall of the alleyway that he'd followed her down, his weapon serving to still her attempts to escape lest he make use of it. It was dark; not even the Pale Lady or the Blue Child were witness to tonight's events. No one was within sight to recount the story that was unfolding before Vandel and this frail woman.
He ran the towel over his hair once more and blotted at his own eyelids with the terry fabric, refocusing upon his own features in the lamp lit reflection of the mirror. His cheek and jaw were beginning to fade, the natural olive tone seeping through the pallid skin of Xathrien Silvacce. This disguise was merely temporary. Maintaining it would become a chore the longer he had to keep up appearances. Wrapping the towel and folding it into place around his waist, he took a wide-rimmed glass bottle off a shelf next to the mirror and uncorked it. The potpourri of herbs met him with a strong presence, causing him to recoil from the opened container for a moment before swirling two fingers into the substance for a dollop of the alchemical cream.
The grip at her throat tightened indefinitely with each word that eked from her trembling lips. Vandel stared deadpan into her tear stained eyes as she cried, her desperate attempt to touch at some semblance of sympathy within her assailant. He could feel the taint on her. A stinging sensation that her bare skin had upon him merely by touch alone. He had a strong suspicion that she practiced the Fel arts when he first passed her on the street. It was later however, after stalking her movements through Silvermoon for at least an hour, when he saw her performing her vile talents in what she had assumed was the cover of shadow in the Row, he knew for certain what she was.
Smearing the concoction over the rounds of his cheeks and the line of his jaw, he carefully massaged it into the troublesome areas that had bled through to conceal his true nature. It would take some time to dry before going into effect. Putting the cream away, he then took a brush from the shelf. Wrapping his slender digits around the solid jade handle, he brushed at the almost tangerine locks. Every tangle was meticulously unfurled. Every flyaway was put into place as he raked the instrument through his dyed hair.
Vandel felt warmth upon his face. It was not the tinge of embarrassment or the heat of the moment. This sensation was thick, sticky even. Blinking, he saw the young elven warlock's throat splayed before him. The scene of her demise was curtained with red that pooled at the corners of his eyes and dripped from his lashes. The natural release of one's life through a mortal wound. A wound that Vandel judged the woman to have earned, carrying out the ultimate sentencing for her un-sanctimonious deeds.
Having primped himself adequately, the collected elf returned to the bath and peered into it. Clouded, soapy water with a telltale pink coloration to it brimmed at the edges. Vandel reached down into the unsightly pool and fished the drain open, emptying the bath's contents. As the bathwater disappeared, the glint of a steel blade became evident on the bottom of the stone marble basin. Leaning to take the handle of his dagger, he surveyed it's condition with the discerning eye of a jeweler. The man ran the water spout briefly to rinse the blade and his hand off, drying both with the lap of his towel.
He watched her lifeless body slump to the foot of the wall and sag to the side, the gash in her neck still seeping out gobs of her delicate life force. Kneeling over her, he glanced around to ensure that none had played witness to his act before grasping at the collar of her purple and gold embroidered robes and ripping the front of it open. Something new was required this time to sate the unforgiving hunger gnawing at his soul. Taking one's life was no longer enough. Something more must be done. A metaphorical stab into the darkness of one's very soul. Vandel reared his blade back and plunged it into the warlock's stilled chest, piercing what he was certain to be a black and shriveled heart. The dagger was left hilt deep in it's place for a few moments as Vandel savored the palpable satisfaction in the air, before twisting the elongated knife ninety-degrees and ripping it from it's victim.
Moving into the main room, the man let loose the dampened towel and began to carefully clothe himself with fresh undergarments and silk sleeping trousers. A casual glance towards the balcony told him that there was still time yet to fall asleep this night. With nerves and mind so serendipitously put at ease, who wouldn't rest as well as a milk-fed babe? Drawing the posh sheets of his bedding back, Vandel climbed in and covered up. With one hand propped behind his head and the other resting on his stomach, the tranquil elf succumbed to dreamless slumber.
