The De L'Aurent Family

The warm fire flickered in the main hall, dancing slithers of light from the ornate paintings hanging along the walls as the three sat eating at the grand table. Kruellagh looked up and stroked a few strands of golden hair behind her ear with one hand as she sipped soup gently with the other, smiling as the warm taste hit the back of her throat. She turned from her soup to watch as Melciah, the butler, passed near silently, placing goblets of wine upon the table, bowing low so that his dark, neatly kept hair draped majestically over his face, before slinking back from whence he came as silently as he had arrived. She marvelled at how he could do that, arriving as if from nowhere, unseen, unheard... An impressive skill, but unerring nonetheless.
Carefully, she took the remaining crust of her bread, dipped it in the warm liquid, before turning to her sister sat across the table from her, older by several years, but also with beautifully kept long blonde hair and a face and figure that drove the rich men wild. Whenever a ball or banquet was held at the manor one thing was certain, Pagatha would be the centre of attention for the entire duration, and credit to her, she spent the best part of the day preparing herself for the night. Perhaps out of envy, but Kruellagh considered such things frivolous. She respected her sisters research deeply, but questioned if these banquet days could be spent better. Pagatha always retorted that everyone needed to unwind from time to time.
“Pagatha?” she called across the table in her soothing melodic voice. Pagatha laid her spoon down and slowly looked up at her sister.
“Yes, Kruellagh?”
“Your first tome-” Kruellagh began before being interrupted by a deep sigh.
“How many times, Kruellagh...” Pagatha let forth a slight chuckle, “Always with my research... Why does it interest you so? Why, ever meal time, must you question me on it?”
The third woman, far older, set her spoon down beside her empty bowl, slid her chair out, rose and departed the grand hall without sound, Kruellagh watched her slide out before continuing, “I just-”
“See?” She interrupted again, snapping her fingers, summoning an imp to her side, who began clearing the table, “You are fully aware how these discussions affect Mother.”
Kruellagh showed little sign of caring, pushing on, “You know why I ask, sister. Since Father's... demise, we have all been living with the possibility of following him to an early grave. The nature of your research both fascinates and worries me. Should you be next then it would be my duty to continue your research.”
“Indeed.” Pagatha shooed her imp away, who vanished back into the nether with a full load of dirty dishes and cutlery, “But the first tome was buried with father. All I need is up here,” she tapped the side of her skull, “And there is little need to exhume corpses to pass it on. My research will die with me.”
“But-”
“No Kruellagh; my research will die with me. It cost Father his life, I dare say that it will cost us all of ours. You saw the state Father was in when we found him in his study...”
“I just-”
“No, little sister. Please, just leave it.” and with that, Pagatha abruptly slid her chair out, rose to her feet and departed the same way as her mother had done.
As the wooden doors slammed shut, Kruellagh sighed, raising a spoonful of soup to her mouth again.

Thunder rolled outside, the candelabras flickered, dimly illuminating the dark and narrow corridors of the manor, catching the edges of the wooden skirting boards and playing on the gilded doorknobs. All was quiet in the house as Kruellagh strolled quietly away from the kitchen area, not even noticing as Melciah slipped ghostlike past her.
As she came to the bottom of the Great Stair she could see the faint glimmer of violet light from Pagatha's study and the faint scent of incense hung on the air. She had a “guest” with her tonight.
Kruellagh slid quietly down the corridors further, passing Mothers bedroom, the door was slightly ajar but inside was utter darkness and the sound of gentle sobs. She was having one of her moods again, Kruellagh decided it best not to linger and instead continued to the foot of the eastern tower and began to scale the winding stone stairs up towards her room, but stopped just above the first landing and paused for a moment.
Of course! She could have slapped herself for not thinking properly; when she had stopped by the library earlier, she must have left the ring there! She retreated back down the stairs to the first landing and made her way towards the great library, but stopped halfway down the corridor. A bright flash came from beside her, and thunder rolled, not far away. She turned to the side, the door to Father's study was wide open, his chair had its back to the door and the window was wide open. The curtains were flapping quite madly in the gale-force winds and the rain was soaking the carpet on the inside. Perhaps Father had fallen asleep.
She crept in silently for fear of waking him, and slowly pulled the window down shut and pulled the curtains together. As she turned for the door, another lightning strike illuminated the room and she screamed. She screamed loudly in fear and in disgust for her father sat in his chair grimacing back with wicked wide eyes and a wide toothed grin. Cold, unfeeling eyes staring right at her, bloodshot. His body was strapped to the leather seat with cruel thorned wire, lacerations tore across his shirt and bared flesh. His shirt had been torn open and between the winds of the wire, she could see where his ribcage had been forced open and pulled outwards, broken, splintered and cracked, revealing the organs within. His forehead was red with gore as strange runes had been carved into his flesh and his gripping hands were nailed to the arms of the chair through the palm.
She kept screaming, a high pitched shrill scream until her lungs were empty, her head light, and she collapsed.

Melciah Penrhyn looked up and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sodden sleeve. Was it sweat, or rainwater? Hard to tell as it lashed the ground around him. Such a terribly morose day; still, it fitted the business – grave digging was hardly a cheery task to begin with. He set the shovel into the ground and hauled himself out the side, reached down to recover it and kicked in the corpse lying beside him; that of a young girl. He wasn't sure what race, but it wasn't a human, that was for sure.
No sooner had the body hit the bottom with a sick, squelchy thud, he had begun shovelling the earth back on top of her. It was a dire job, but somebody had to clear up after Miss Pagatha's “experiments” and the coin that the De L'Aurent's paid him was good, even since the Master had passed away in such a disturbing manner. Of course, that had been his mess to clear up to. Such were the perks of this career.
The Master would not have had a grave such as this, Melciah pondered to himself as he threw wet mud onto the little girls corpse. No, his body would have been treated by the Apothecaries, his bones stored within a sarcophagus and his flesh burnt to ash and stored in a jar. Yes, he'd have been placed in the De L'Aurent Charnel House with a shrine set up for him, of that he was certain. He wondered, when he was gone, who would dig his grave? Or would the family see him fit for such treatment? He could only hope, then again, what did that matter if the plague reached this secluded house? It had already spread over most of Lordaeron, and indeed, this house was one of the few safe havens remaining. What would it matter where he was buried if he was doomed to life unending?
He'd heard the tales of the zombies and skeletons risen from the graves, he'd heard of the wraiths and ghosts of those who'd been cremated. Of course he had, who hadn't?
He shook his head a little as he patted the soil down flat and looked over the makeshift “graveyard” that had been put in place of the old cherry orchard. Still, no matter, such thinking was the making of a fool, he told himself, and not worthy of taking his time. So much to do, so little time...

“So, tell me about yourself.” Pagatha said with a wry smile on her face, violet vapours from incense bowls stroked across her beautifully pale skin, caressing the soft delicate features of her face as she spoke.
The boy opposite her, tied by the wrists and ankles to a large board of wood, writhed and struggled violently, a long snake-like tongue flicked around his fang-like teeth and his eyes, glowing red from within, stared at her with dire anger and hatred.
“Before you were incarcerated here, who were you?” she said calmly, not even looking up from the tome she was scribing in. She was sat at her desk, a simple wooden table with two incense bowls either side of her burning with the violet vapour and the candles heating them lighting her work as she scribbled notes.
The child hissed loudly and cursed in a voice blatantly not his own, but darkly feminine and harsh, “As though I should grace such a contemptible wench with my name!”.
“Fine then.” she said, setting her quill down within the ink well, looking up calmly and slowly, clasping her hands together, smiling warmly, “Then what are you; shivarra? Succubus?”
The boy stopped struggling, and hung their limply, his head hung low, almost as if he were about to cry, “A priestess of His Unholiness, Lord Sargeras!” the boy cried, throwing his head up to look at her, “And let it be known that his Dark Vision extends across this world and will surely engulf you!”
“I'm sure...” Pagatha said coolly, returning to her notes for a moment then standing slowly and walking casually forwards, “So, if I am to be understood then, you are shivarra... Do you choose to follow Sargeras or is it an indoctrination?”
The boy shook violently and arched forward away from the board as if trying to rush at her. Pagatha just stood there unflinching, holding her wrists calmly behind her back.
“Hmm, not entirely talkative are you?”
The boy fell limp against the board and spoke again, this time with the head remaining low and the icy voice far calmer and restrained, “You know -nothing- Demonslayer, nothing of the Dread Vision, nothing of your fate and purpose, nothing-”
Pagatha cut the voice short by pressing a dagger suddenly and firmly to the boys throat, letting a slight trickle of blood flow across it's blade, “You know nothing of me, Kzaarxetheris, so don't dare to admonish me.”
At the mention of her name, the boy threw his head up and the eyes and mouth were horrified.
“Oh yes,” Pagatha continued, “I know your name well, I was merely trying to make conversation. Now, you -will- answer my questions or you will be destroyed utterly. How on earth did you think I could bind you here without your name?”
And so she asked her questions and the boy answered in the cold, harsh and icy voice. For hours this continued, Pagatha never again losing her cool, jotting her notes down in her book tirelessly, embroiled in a conversation that never quite left the frozen edges of discomfort; both parties maintaining a thin veil of pleasantry.
“So whom do you serve under?” Pagatha questioned again, looking up from her writing slowly. The boy remained silent, so she repeated the question. When no answer came again, she stood up from her book and strode calmly towards the boy.
“I asked you a question.”
“And I gave no answer.” came the hissing reply.
Pagatha held the dagger firm to the boys throat again, firmly.
“Threaten me all you like...” the voice retorted calmly, “But I'll not answer. You have asked me questions enough, I will answer no more.”
“Kzaarxetheris, must I remind you that-”
“You need not remind me of anything.” the boy contorted outwards at her, tongue lashing, “I am entirely aware, whelp, and nothing you can do will alter anything. My demise and destruction will be only the beginning of pain and torment to envelop this house.”
“Then it is a shame, Kzaarxetheris, that I must end you now.” Pagatha span on her ankles and took hold of one of the incense burners, holding the bowl below the boys chin which she pressed her dagger to. The boy winced and writhed in pain as the vapours caressed his neck before she slid the blade harshly across, slicing through the soft jugular flesh. With four quick slices she cut the lashes holding the boy to the board, and the small child fell to the floor with a wet thud, a puddle of claret slowly spreading across the floorboards. She clicked her fingers and a small imp flashed into being next to her.
“Mistress?” it croaked up at her.
“Pazrik, please send Penrhyn up to clean up this mess.” she requested turning back to her book without looking at the boys corpse or her imp. He nodded then vanished as fast as he had arrived. She sighed to herself, and that one had seemed so promising...

The music was playing, quite an impressive string quartet this year, Kruellagh thought, as she gracefully descended the main stair towards the banquet hall. She passed through the open double doors onto the upper balcony and swept along to the staircase and down into the crowds below. Heads turned, she knew they would, she could feel they had and she saw a few. She knew she was far from ugly, indeed, she knew she was far more attractive than many of the other girls here, but from the looks of things, Pagatha hadn't arrived yet. Something inside her sank, the heads had probably turned in anticipation of it being her sister. Nevertheless, she bit it and swallowed, smiling as she graciously flowed from the steps into the crowd, lifted a wine glass from a passing servant and began making her way towards the dance floor.
Then came the gasps. She turned to the stair and, sure enough, there was her sister in one of the most beautiful dresses she had seen. A white flowing gown with a tight purest white silk bodice. The trestles, the lace, everything was so pure and flowing, and down the back was a pink flourish as though foxglove petals had been sewn into the back. Her make-up so meticulously done, the silver slippers, the delicate tiara inset with a dazzling earthstorm diamond... Pagatha De L'Aurent, you'd never in a million years guess she was a demonologist by trade; she seemed so delicate and perfect that it seemed beauty was her sole passion in life. Such was the meticulous preparation she made for these events.
Kruellagh smiled broadly, feeling a little traitorous inside. She was so proud to be her sister, but at the same time, so undeniably jealous. She wished that just once she could be the centre of attention. She wished that just once that she could be the favourite.
She placed her empty wine glass on the side and was a little amazed that, seconds later, it had vanished. Melciah was here, surely. Suddenly, she stopped herself, aware that the fake smile she had worn for her sisters arrival, had suddenly become a far warmer one.
She shook her head a little, confused at herself, then slipped back into the crowd. Surely, there must be one decent looking man in this crowd that Pagatha would have turned down that would dance with her...

Rain lashed against the windows loudly, it had been like this for days, endless rain, and it showed little sign of letting up. The sisters sat eating with their mother, a fantastic Yule feast, the chef had really outdone himself this year. There was no conversation between the three, as was so often the case these days, so all was silent save for the flickering woof of the candelabras, the lashing rain against the glass and the sound of cutlery against the crockery.
The quiet was suddenly broken by the piercing ring of the doorbell. The two girls and the mother all stopped at once, nobody was expecting guests... Pagatha and the Mother both lifted their heads curiously, Kruellagh just sat still, still looking at her food, before all three, almost as one, began to eat again.
Melciah Penrhyn set the tray he was carrying down gently, corrected the towel hung over his arm and moved quietly towards the door, questioning in his mind who could possibly be passing the estate at this hour and for what purpose.
He arrived at the door, unbolted the top of the door and slowly turned the gilded knob, the catch releasing with a hollow clunk. He slowly pulled the door open and looked upon the visitors, three of them, hooded, one stood close to the door, the other two stood upon the steps toward the door.
“We are so sorry to disturb you, but there is nobody else for miles... Might we-” the first croaked with a voice that gurgled over bodily fluid as he lifted his head to the butler. Melciah didn't allow him to finish his sentence before he flicked two blades from his belt into his hand and plunged them into the first man's eyes and pulled him forwards, dancing behind him as sickly yellow fluid poured from the wounds of the man's face as he stumbled blindly.
Melciah spun, burying one of his blades quickly into the shrouded man's back and forced it forward into the lungs and heart, claret burst forth as the man gargled into death.
“I wasn't expecting guests... No matter” he muttered as he leapt from the doorway over the shoulders of the second, spinning in mid-air, withdrawing a thin metal wire from his sleeves, wrapping it around the second man's neck and garrotting him as he landed, “You will be dealt with as with all other guests.”.
He kicked the gurgling man forward, onto his knees and withdrew the wire and span both blades into the man's neck, completely severing the jugular artery.
The third man wasted no time and flew at Melciah with daggers of his own. Melciah responded with a quick duck to the side out of harms way before slashing sideways, catching his assailants midriff. The man grunted in pain as the attack knocked him off-course and went barrelling down the stairs. He rose to his feet, horror on his face and turned to run, but didn't get far before a thrown dagger buried itself into his back. The man lurched forward, then fell dead.
Melciah looked around him at the pallid and sickly corpses around him, wrapped the towel he was still carrying around his face as a mask and stepped down to the third man's corpse to recover his dagger, wiping both his blades on the muddy grass.
“Oh my...” he muttered to himself as he watched pools of blood dripping down the white stairs, “I appear to have made rather a mess...”
He hadn't allowed the plague to reach this house yet, and there was no way he was to allow carriers into the manor, no matter the cost. He resheathed his blades, crept back into the house, and returned the towel to his arm before closing the door and heading back into the kitchen to clean himself down.

“Tell your sister to come down to dinner immediately” her mother commanded, “I don't care about her research, she is not to miss tonight's meal as she did last night.”
Kruellagh nodded and rose to her feet, heading out of the Great Hall and to the foot of the Great Stair. In the gloom she could see the purple light emanating from Pagatha's room, and knew that she was, indeed, studying a guest tonight. She swallowed hard and contested with herself. Pagatha had ordered her never to interrupt her work, and to be honest, Kruellagh was a little frightened by it. On the other hand, despite the fear, she was curious and this was the first thing Mother had actually said in days; so she knew it must be important to her.
With a sigh she ascended the stairs up to the second floor to the door that jutted right onto the balcony, and knocked. She didn't really know why she'd knocked, she'd known there'd be no reply, but perhaps she'd done it for polite courtesy. She pulled one of the doors open very slightly and peered in, a teenage girl was strapped to a board against the wall by her wrists and ankles, and the head was limp for a moment before it glared up at her viciously and hissed, arching itself from the board as if it was trying to leap at her. Kruellagh jumped backwards nervously, and anticipated her sister crying out and cursing her to leave. When no such afrontage arrived, she pulled the door open the rest of the way and immediately understood why there had been no reply.
Pagatha hung there, suspended in mid-air, her face upturned as a cruel barbed wire noose hung around her neck, lacerations still bleeding though Pagatha's flesh now quite pale. As she hung there, she rotated slightly, and Kruellagh could see her hands had been bound with similar wire. The true horror was only revealed as Pagatha slowly rotated back the other way and her flesh on her torso had been removed, her robes torn to the side to reveal nothing but a ribcage and dangling intestines. Blood was puddling on the floor.
The girl on the board looked at her wickedly, grinning and delighting in the torment she could sense in Kruellagh. Kruellagh span around to Pagatha's desk, knowing what to do, retrieved an incense burner and held it below the girls face.
“You did this, didn't you?!” she screamed, the girl retorting her face in agony as the vapours caressed her chin and cheeks, but she only laughed in reply.
Without a seconds thought, she span to her sisters dangling corpse, pulled her dagger from her robe sash and slit the girls throat and buried the knife deep into her breast. Blood poured free and the girl screamed and gurgled into death. Kruellagh dropped to her knees and screamed, wet screams between sobs. She pulled herself together and headed to Pagatha's desk, read through the notes, then closed the book and held it close to her. This was the third volume, the first had been buried with Father, the second would go with Pagatha. Kruellagh would continue her sisters study, for her sisters memory, to finish the work she started.






MORE TO COME