Dreamweaver meets The Theurge - Preylewd
The Bandersnatch
Preylewd by The Bandersnatch
[An old plantation, an hour outside of New Orleans. 3 o’clock am.]
Silent and chilling, their shadows leaped like hounds before the
coterie of walking death. They’d failed at baiting the Prince of New
Orleans into a sortie from behind his castle’s walls, and had now
arrived to storm them. Passing beneath the ivy-covered walls they step
between two huge statues of Unicorns rampant, one of white marble, and
the other of onyx, to stop before the Prince’s wrought iron gates. A
knotted pentacle fleurette is centered upon each gate, indicative of
the d’Chardrey family’s, “Le Fleur d’Pagandom” kenning.
With appalling ease the point shadow pulls away the gates as if
they were clinging cobwebs. Behind them, the twisted wreckage of the
wrought iron gate drops in a cacophony of tortured shrieks at the feet
of its flanking Unicorn-rampant guardians. The nine shadows stalk
angrily up the concourse toward the d’Chardrey mansion. But the
glitter in the eyes of the gates watchers goes unnoticed by the nine
Anarchist intruders.
This had turned into an assassination attempt, though at the start
it was supposed to be a coup.
Le Comte d’Nawlins took the tacit mental message from his gnomes
in his study. Regretfully, he gently lays aside the Greek’s
translation from the Coptic, “The Gospel of Phillip”, just one of many
esoteric volumes in his extensive occult library. He leaves the study
from its only door in the west. The young looking man trails one
alabaster hand,down the oil-slick blues of the Damascus steel, ivy
shaped railing of the right-hand staircase. He has a sylph make
certain he leaves neither sign, scent, nor sound in his wake, as he
crosses the gold-veined, white marble of the foyer, which doubles as a
ballroom. Le Comte mutters to himself, “This would be so much easier if
Robin or Annastasia, were here.” thinking of his dear friends, the
Animist’s Enforcer, & enchanting, quicksilver Artisté, respectively.
Before the double doors of the mansion, he pauses to tie his shoulder
length ringlets into a ponytail. He had been expecting the Anarchists
to challenge his authority, but the gatecrashing was a disturbing
surprise.
In the first year of his ‘Governorship’ d’Nawlins, the late Victorian
anachronism decreed to his Vampire subjects, “No killing, when you
feed. And no hunting of those, less than eighteen years of age.”
However, during the last month several young women had been gang-raped,
drained to the last drop, and had their remains tossed about like sweet
confetti, in complete defiance of his Law.
When the first of the rape-murders occurred, the young Comte had asked
the cards for answers. The Tarot pointed him toward Tom Bedlam, leader
of the Crazies in New Orleans. When found, and confronted, Master
Bedlam decried the accusation, protested his innocence, and implicated
the Anarchists.
‘And here, they are.’ thinks le Comte, swinging wide both doors.
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The antediluvian Crazy was having a most difficult time in
keeping the charade of an angry countenance. It was all she could do,
not to giggle uncontrollably. Fifty yards away, she notices the
mansion’s double doors swing open. She smiles a feral smile, picking
nervously at a shard of glass, punched through her hand. All her plans
were coming to fruition. And soon, very, very soon, New Orleans would
have a Princess! “Fan out!” she commands with her charismatic Animal
Magnetism power. Like the Zulus of old they lope to position.
“Abigrrl? Now!?”, the pale Brit, Jacko, raises his twin nine
millimeter’s toward the light framed image of le Comte, “Can I fuck ‘im
over now?”
“No! Not yet! You can fuck his sweet little fairie froggie mouth, if
you want! But only on my say-so. Got it!?”, Abigrrl Lens growls.
Jacko, and the other Anarchists raise their firearms grinning evilly,
thinking, “That faggoty B’ee-Aahch sure is in for a surprise when he
gets a load of these cold-iron slugs!”
Abigrrl’s ace-in-the-hole... Cold. Iron. In her intuitive, lateral
thinking Crazy way, she just knew ‘le Comte’ was a great big Fairie!
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With a perspicuity known to few, le Comte uses his greatest
power of True Sight to read the auras of his ‘guests’. Strong
personalities and emotions leave spiritual imprints. These
fingerprints, much less the soul its self, are an Akashic record of the
complete history and biography of the person, or the persons that they
have been in their past lives. So the revelation of a lioness in
wolf’s clothing, confirms what the Tarot had told him previously. And
for pulling aside the “The Veil” by such indiscreet feeding, a Blood
Feud would have been demanded from the duped Anarchists, wiping them
out, at least in New Orleans.
In a quiet, calm and pleasant voice, carried easily by a sylph the
fifty yards to the quickly approaching coterie, le Comte
inquires, “Have one of you cowards, come to issue formal challenge?”
With the figure, and swagger of a matador, the young looking man glides
down the steps of the veranda to a-light upon the balls of his feet
like some great 225-pound cat.
With that comment, the gang of eight Anarchists, lower their weapons
looking expectantly at Abigrrl Lens.
Furious, the antediluvian glares at her Anarchists, points at le Comte,
and shrieks, “Drop that Fag!”
Demonstrating very poor form, faithful Jacko’s nines, blaze streaks of
red in the pre-dawn twilight. Other, unbidden retorts split the dawn’s
serenity following Abigrrl’s Coercion of her minions.
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[Two weeks previously…]
The personæ before Circaëa Gemynd, Doctor of Forensic Psychiatry, had
died the day after she graduated from Megapolis University, in
association with the Veterans Administration Hospital, and the M.U.
clinic, at twenty-three. She had planned it for some time, and now she
was free. Her single-engine bi-plane exploded over the ocean, and nary
a trace of her was to be found.
In several other guises she re-insinuated herself into the lives of
past friends, colleagues, and patients. Now, under the name of
Circaëa, she’s joining the Forensic Psychiatry Department of the M.P.D.
(Megapolis Police Department) and its Superhuman Unit.
A little less than a month ago a former patient, retired Vietnam
Veteran, Captain Horace Mills, a combat chopper pilot, put a service
revolver into his mouth and ended his own life. Dr. Gemynd was shocked
to hear of it, as she had helped him with his flashbacks a few years
back. Now, Mrs. Veronica Mills was failing to cope with the suicide of
her husband, Horace. Circaëa was contacted as a friend of the family,
and tacitly as a consultant. Veronica was on the verge of a mental
breakdown of her own, with the suicide following so closely after the
horrific rape and murder of their only daughter Deirdre. Recovering
from this second shock, Circaëa uses her Telepathy to anaesthetize Mrs.
Mills, and perform Redactive surgery. Using the misdirection of
Hypnosis as justification for Mrs. Mills renewed fortitude, Dr. Gemynd
prescribes her some placebos and rest, sending Mrs. Mills home to New
Orleans. She vows to do everything she can to bring Deirdre’s killers
to Justice.
With only a little finagling Dr. Gemynd succeeded in obtaining a two-
week delay of her start date from the M.P.D.S.U.’s Captain Harker.
The cab drops her off at 500 St. Charles Ave., in front of the Parc St.
Charles Hotel. Dr. Gemynd pushes past the glass doors, and pauses
before the front desk. A consummate professional, the concierge takes
a few long moments, and slow deep breaths, to accustom himself to the
inhuman beauty of the 5’2” woman before him. Without the slightest
squeak in his voice, the concierge inquires politely, “’ello Ma’am, may
ah help you?” Nodding, the good Doctor replies, “Yes please, I’m Dr.
Circaëa Gemynd. I believe I’ve reserved the penthouse suite?” The
concierge repeats, “Dr. Kir-kay-ee-ah Jzhem-ind. Sign here please.” As
Dr. Gemynd checks in, the concierge signals a bellhop to take the Dr.’s
suitcase. Smiling at the bellhop, Dr. Gemynd shakes her head in the
negative, saying, “No thanks, I’ve got it.”, and despite her petit
100#’s strides in her ‘fuck-me’ pumps over to the elevators.
The three pair of eyes of the bellhops, follows the shimmy of her waist-
length, raven’s wing black hair, which cascades over her athletic
flanks. She turns into the hallway with the elevators, whereupon she
recedes from view. “Have you seen her before?”, one asks. “Wasn’t she
that girl in the ‘This is your brain on drugs’, commercial a few year
back? …You know, the one where she says, ‘Wait. It’s not over…and
this is your Family! …And your Friends!…’” “Yeah! She’s the one who
just trashes the whole kitchen…”, agrees another, “You know, Rachael
Leigh Cook. Yeah, she’s all that!” “No way, you morons! No one can
grow hair that fast. Not in just a couple of years.”, says the third.
The first bellhop responds, “Well who-ever she is…d’amn what a bod on
her!” His peers just bob their heads foolishly, in agreement.
The concierge doesn’t even bother with any chastisements.
On the elevator, Circaëa ‘hears’ their thoughts, as easily as if she
were still in the same room. And with ‘seeing’ in people’s minds all
the baggage and allusions and innuendos that go along with people’s
words… still she blushes, when she ‘watches’ people thinking about what
they’ld like to be doing to her. But even so, she’s able to chuckle to
herself, wondering who’s going to tell the youngest bellhop, that human
beings can’t do that. Can they!?
[Several days later…lying in the bed of her penthouse suite, shortly
after 3 o’clock am.]
It had been two days since she had failed to save the last victim. Her
Mind Scan had been sifting through the extraneous mental ‘static’
throughout all of New Orleans. She finally ‘heard’ the evil mental
taunts and snarls of her prey, moments before the piteous death wail of
Sarah Garrett. By the time she slipped her consciousness out-of-body,
and her ætheric self had arrived at the scene, Sarah’s killers had
fled. But now she had several of the killer’s mental ‘scents’.
So she was ready, when she picked up on one of the killer’s
thoughts, “Drop that Fag!”
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Jacko and his companion’s, wrought-iron bullets break most of
the known laws of physics, when they glance harmlessly off le Comte’s
silk shirt. The Archon of Protection, bound to his clothes spends one
of his services, on his Master’s behalf. Tacitly, Aramis thanks his
guardian angel, ‘Jackson’ for his protection.
In a subtle gesture, le Comte d’Chardrey indicates Jacko’s
guns, and one of his salamanders that’s bound into a ruby stickpin on
his white silk cravate, leaps in a flashing red arch at Jacko. Jacko
reflexively casts his arms before his face to protect himself. At the
apex of its arch, the newt lands on his right gun-hand and instantly,
the flesh and bones sublimate into smoke, leaving not even ash. Worse
for Jacko, the nine mil lasts for but a one thousand one count, before
it splashes in all directions like soft solder, mostly into Jacko’s
face. His agony is ephemeral, for catatonia comes only moments before
Final Death, as the salamander falls through the front of, then crawls
through the back of, his skull as if it were rice paper. The newt
turns and pounces upon Jacko’s remaining 9mm that lies loosely in his
gun-hand, like a kitten on a chew toy until only slag remains.
Aramis stares, Abigrrl stares, and all of her Anarchists stare
in shock at the smoldering corpse that was Jacko.
Grimly, Aramis demands, “You’re here to offer challenge?” His
flashing violet eyes meet the mad, oddly juxtaposed, amber & ice blue,
eyes of Abigrrl. The remaining Anarchists yell encouragement to their
Jefé.
Le Comte sees a young, mid-twenties looking woman in an oil-
black trench coat, red tube top and black leather mini-skirt. He notes
that she’s some 5’ 10” tall, with pins, springs, and shards of glass,
punctured and protruding from every portion of her body. These
piercings she needs, unknown to him, to raise her tactile sensitivity
due to her granite dense, though soft and pliant flesh.
Her unsettling eyes bore into his with hatred. “You puelling whelp!
You’ve no right to be Prince! You’re just some orphan hustler! You’ve
no family! Nothing!” Using her charisma based Animal Magnetism to
intimidate him, she hisses, “How dare you oppose me!” After a second’s
pause with her peculiar eyes blazing, she decides to bend his will to
hers, Coercing, “Kneel before me, & you might live to serve me as my
bitch!”
Abigrrl stalks up to Aramis whom she sees clearly for the first
time. He appears to be a gorgeous, young man of 18, but that, of
course, doesn’t mean much. His flawless alabaster skin, his still
human looking ‘baby’ face, infuriates her. She wonders whether or
not ‘le Comte’ is really a vampire at all.
When she gets nearly chest-to-chest with Aramis, a moment of
doubt flickers through her mind. Glaring up at his 6’3”
height, “Kneel!” she again Coerces. Le Comte’s knees begin to bend
ever-so-slightly. Soon, under the scrutiny of those terrible eyes, he
is halfway to his knees, when suddenly; Aramis lashes out with a
savateur’s shot to Abigrrl’s groin. Not unexpectedly, Abigrrl’s mouth
gawps in surprise, but it is le Comte d’Chardrey who writhes in pain as
he breaks several bones in his right hand, on Lens’s granite dense,
ageless body.
An icy clamp of fear grips Abigrrl, as she realizes that there
should’ve been no way on-this-earth, that her neither her Animal
Magnetism, nor her Coercion powers, shouldn’t have crushed his tiny
mind.
In a panic, she pulls out from under her trench coat, a huge
seltzer bottle of water and cold-iron fillings. “You’re fucked now,
pretty boy!” The seltzer bottles spray strikes Aramis’s flesh as if it
were hydrofluoric acid, due to his ¼ Fee ancestry.
Wet, bubbling pops, and a constant sizzling, become the
accompaniment of le Comte’s, “Aaaaaaaa! AaaaaaAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAH!”
Aramis catches the brunt of the first stream on the insides of his
crossed protecting forearms, the flesh of which begins to slough off in
sheets, exposing bones. Stunned, le Comte topples backwards, and
watches numbly as the Crazy woman stands over her victim, ready to
force-feed him the second half, of the seltzer bottle’s contents.
The air is filled with the cheers from the Anarchists, who
think, *Finally! An Anarchist Princess!*
Distracted by the cheers, Abigrrl grins childishly, and flops to
straddle Aramis’s chest. Only Jackson’s protection keeps his ribs from
being crushed into an interlocking pattern like that of a zipper. In a
mischievous five year old’s voice, she whispers, “Hehehe.”, she rolls
her eyes indicating the Anarchists, “The jokes on them!…I’m really a
Crazy!” Le Comte unstuns and tries to say something, but she clamps a
heavy cosh of a hand over his mouth, and hisses, “Ah! Shhhhhh! It’s our
secret!”
On tacit command, an undine hidden in le Comte’s blood, forces the iron
filings out of Aramis’s body, covering him in carnelian spume.
Pleasantly surprised, Abigrrl smiles fondly down upon her victim, and
licks one long clean swath, from chin to eyebrows, onto his face. She
pauses during her trek up his face, to lick the hot salty blood off of
his soft, curiously warm lips. Impulsively, she French kisses the
deliciously helpless Comte, savoring her conquest. Being ½ Incubus he
cannot help but appreciate her perfect technique.
Lens grabs le Comte’s ponytail at the base, and lifts his head high off
of the turf. “This is for Jacko, you fucking Fairie!”, with her left
hand she reaches underneath her skirt and pulls her red leather thong
aside, before thrusting her mons viciously into Aramis’s face. She’s
rewarded with a sharp “K’rrACK!”, as her pubic bone pulverizes le
Comte’s nose. Hot and sticky blood pours over her wildly thrusting
loins, the flesh of which is as heavy as granite. “Ahhhhh YES!” she
cries. Trying to buy time the only way he can think of, Aramis lathes
a forceful lap with his warm, soft, and broad tongue deep between
Abigrrl’s vaginal lips and up, over, and down the length of, her
clitoris.
Surprised, Abigrrl jerks his face away from her twat, staring puzzled
into Aramis’s violet eyes. She cannot even remember what physical
sexual pleasure is like, that having been completely subsumed for ages
upon ages by The Hunger and it’s Feeding. A bemused and rueful half-
smile pulls at the corner of her lips, “Wrong tact whelp.”, states
Abigrrl flatly.
“Time for me to kill you now!”, she cries ebulliently. As she stands
up, Aramis tacitly orders his undine to possess the water in the
seltzer bottle.
With a light-heart she stands over her foe, mocks with exaggerated
pantomime, the unzipping of her skirt. She points the nozzle squarely
at his face… and misses.
Into the shocked silence, a woman’s reverberating voice booms
down. “Abigrrl Lens, you and your cohorts are guilty of the crimes of
Rape, and Murder, and you’re going to pay!” Le Comte d’Chardrey hears
nothing. But following Abigrrl’s astonished gaze, his True Sight
reveals… An Angel? She hovers twenty or so feet above the field.
No. It’s not one of his Lord’s angels or archons…for it has dove’s
wings. & it’s not one of The Adversaries fallen-angels either…for they
have bat’s wings.
However, Abigrrl, and the Anarchists see and feel it all. Like
Amaterasu personified she flies down, haloed in a ball of red-orange
sunlight to engulf the coterie of Anarchists. The Anarchists go up in
flames like kindling, and even Abigrrl begins to smolder. Desperately
they try to scatter like cockroaches.
Aramis prays to his lord the Morning Star, and lays hands (so-to-speak)
upon himself, curing the aggravated damage on his arms, and re-knitting
the fractured bones in his wrist and face.
The ‘angel’s’ Id Creation of sunlight, aided in its formation, and
additionally powered, by the minds of her victims has even Abigrrl in
too much pain to do more than shriek, as she too begins to
psychosomatically burn.
At first, le Comte d’New Orleans feels the Id sunlight as a chimæra,
softer than moonlight, but as the ‘angel’ weaves their sunlight
nightmare together, their Id Creation is empowered so that it effects
even inanimate objects much less Aramis, so that he too flares into a
torch. Giving Telepathic orders, it takes the combined efforts of
both his sylph and undine to raises a fog about himself diffusing the
now real sunlight’s harmful effects. In less than two seconds he’d
lost the first three layers of his skin. His second greatest power is
bestowed upon him by ‘Gen Lee’, and he is very grateful that in his
service is this Archon of Protection, who Wards his mind against direct
mental and emotional, detection and influences. Unique among the young
Theurge’s minions, the Pact made for the Ward with his God grants the
power for life. And le Comte has yet to meet or find source material,
concerning a person with more than one Ward Pact.
Examining this ‘angel’s’ aura, he pierces her Id mask to analyze her
ætheric body. *An idealized version of herself.* He thinks, *She
really is une déesse petit.* Quickly he memorizes her eyes of
sapphire. And her gorgeous, calf-length, raven’s wing black hair, that
lies, flows, and shimmers like an oriental woman’s. He estimate’s that
she is about five-foot…eight, and one hundred and thirty five pounds or
so. He thinks with a smile, *34…C? 24-34?*, and with a mental nod of
approval, *A young woman in her…mid-twenties.* Aramis examines the
costume she affects, like some super-heroine. A dark blue, painted-on
spandex cat suit. Knee-high argent boots split to elf-ear points on
either side of her kneecaps. A argent, split ended sash, tied at her
waist; and long argent gloves that flow into a point protecting the
elbows. Le Comte finds most curious, the starburst symbols on her
platinum necklace, and ferronniere, which glints strangely with each
use of her power. *Of course*, he thinks, *Ætheric travelers, can
appear anyway that they wish...*
Le Comte, through one of his gnomes, notices Abigrrl meld with the
earth in an attempt to put out the flames and escape. She descends some
50 yards, before going into torpor. At le Comte’s direction, a gnome
makes her bob back up to the surface like a cork.
Circaëa’s ætheric self surveys the field of battle, trying to find
signs of life. With no living minds to find (Note: Vampires count as
having ‘living’ minds, except when in torpor.), her angelic form
implodes upon itself, taking the form of an obviously abused, fifteen
year old waif, who begins to wander slowly away.
Aramis had never seen a case of ‘Soul Loss’ before, but his ‘angel’
seems to have broken some deep psychological imperative, and a large
section of her psyche had just folded itself up, and tucked itself away.
Le Comte sends a sylph to follow the ætheric girl to her body, with
orders to notify him as to her condition, and with directions, once
there.
Aramis mentally recalls his undine into his bloodstream before spending
a portion of his blood pool to reactivate his body. Le Comte crawls
over to the first of the real Anarchists, spending another point of his
own blood reserves to re-animate him. Le Comte warns the Anarchists,
quoting from passages read earlier that evening from the Gnostic Gospel
of Phillip. “The slave seeks only to be free, but he does not hope to
acquire the estate of his Master.”
Standing, he staggers over to the next Anarchist reciting, “But the
son, is not only a son but lays claim to the inheritance of the
father. Those who are heirs to the dead are themselves dead, and they
inherit the dead. Prima Secundæ Partis - Man's Last End.” Spending
another point of his blood pool, he re-animates a second Anarchist.
Staring into the just opening terrified eyes, he continues, “Those who
are heirs to what is living are alive, and they are heirs to both what
is living and the dead.” Le Comte indicates himself, tapping his
chest. Walking over to a third Anarchist he points towards Jacko’s
body saying, “The dead are heirs to nothing. For how can he who is
dead inherit?” He spends a fourth blood point. He spends every last
blood point he can spare in reviving the last four catatonic
Anarchists, finishing the passage to himself… “If he who is dead
inherits what is living he will not die, but he who is dead will live
even more.”
Le Comte quietly addresses the Anarchists, “Abigrrl Lens, is mine to
punish as I see fit. I presume there are no other challenges to Aramis
of Clan d’Chardrey’s right to reign as ‘Comte’ d’Nawlins? After all
heads shake “No” in negation, he continues. “This is the first, and
last Indulgence that I shall bestow on the Anarchists of N’Awlins. If
your representative leadership swears their fealty to me; sees to it’s
faithful observation of my edicts; and accepts the mantle of being the
judicious enforcers of my Law…you have my permission to withdraw.”
The Anarchists mouth quick assurances and turn to run. “Stop!” roars
le Comte. “You are not to turn your backs to me.” They stand confused
a moment, before awkwardly, and somewhat comically, backing out of
Aramis’s presence for some fifty yards, and off the property of le
Comte d’Nawlins.
After the Anarchists departure, Aramis takes a deep breath out
of practiced habit, and leans down to lift the fetal form of Abigrrl
Lens. He chuckles at his own stupidity, unable to budge the granite
bean dolly that is Madame Lens. Cannibalism is not an option for him,
so he has a gnome remove her to the chapel’s bell tower until he
resolves what to do about her.
The Theurge says last rites over Jacko, before tidiness demands that he
have a salamander consume his remains in a warrior’s fare well.
Having depleted his blood reserves completely, le Comte heads
toward the mansion preparing to hunt before starvation at dawn, just
three hours hence, forces him into catatonia. Wearily, he climbs the
veranda’s steps, when the sylph he sent to follow his heroine, sends
him a message, “Master, she’s leaving.”
“Leaving? Where to? Oh, never-mind. Show me.” Aramis commands.
The sylph allows Aramis to look through her eyes, as Circaëa
Gemynd finishes willing herself to die.
“NO!”
End Preylewd
Last modified 07/20/00 please send comments and constructive criticism
to Bander...@hotmail.com
From The Banderlair; A Tale of Megapolis:
Dreamweaver meets The Theurge - Preylewd
By The Bandersnatch
Bander...@hotmail.com
***
This work is copyright © 2000 by The Bandersnatch.
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***
--
"We’ve always been ready for female superheroes. Because women
want to be them and men want to do them. Or at least admire them from a
distance.” - Famke Janssen who plays X-Man Jean Grey
--
--
"We’ve always been ready for female superheroes. Because women
want to be them and men want to do them. Or at least admire them from a
distance.” - Famke Janssen who plays X-Man Jean Grey
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