And so for a time the crew and I joined the Shadow Thieves, and I became the henchman of Moire, a rather vulgar thief, but an effective thief. Her vulgarity was an extension of her boldness, that’s why it was fairly easy to find myself on her silk sheets, nude, eating occasional nibbles from a purple ball of tar-like “Hebris” compound imported from the far lands.
Yes, there were chains on my feet, and often on my wrists–especially if I drifted off to fantasy land composed by the “Hebris” tar, and thus dreamed in a precarious position. I allowed this to happen to me, for it was the quickest way to get Moire to trust me as her “inferior.” When she grew tired of my devoted caresses, she slapped me, unchained me, and tore the brass bowl of Hebris from my hands. “Look at you. Little more than my whore. When I first recruited you, you were a she-wolf. You disgust me. Go find your killers, I have a job for you. Maybe that will sober you up.”
I won’t lie. Being with Moire was like being with a tiger, but I was more tiger than she suspected. The Hebris was active only when I allowed my vampyric nature to sleep like an easy hound in my heart. What did I really want? Power. I was now not a suspect. I was “known” by my lover, Moire, and known by her soldiers as well, yet deep beneath, I awaited for their “knowing” eyes to sleep long enough for me and my conscripts to make the move, overcome Moire, send her packing to the Underworld.
I had taken part of a portion of Moire’s soul as sustenance, but there might be an argument to take more from a fresh source. You never knew what could go wrong when attacking the Shadow Thieves. I’m thinking explosive potions–those potions pose a danger to me and my fellows. I’m also thinking potable acids in glass vials, which upon breaking, spew their corrosive filth upon the unwary. If I went into such combat with more soul-substance than I needed, healing would occur quicker, quicker sometimes than the eye can measure.
“Fancy a bit of a diddle with me, love?” A droopy flower from an alley called. Indeed, this was more of the Shadow Thieves doing for you. It was like them to buy a person from a hungry family, prostitute them in revealing clothing and garish make-up, and collect the gains at the end of the night. I could tell the poor wretch sported a few fingers that never did heal from breaks, and that noble nose and its unnatural bump it sported.
“Will this work for a few moments,” I asked, holding out a glittering jewel I’d taken from Moire’s trove.
“Yes, lover, yes,” the poor wretch said. She took the jewel, and I took her hand, trapping her in the deeper shadows of the alley. I heard nothing but a soft coo and a soft “yes, please.” She got hers, and I, let me assure you, got mine.”