Crushed Lavender

Lavandula hear her hooves first, clicking against the stone tiles. Clip, clop, clip, clop. Hardly a stealthy woman. The sound takes on a different tone as she steps in the blood.

"Hello, Lavandula," the cambion says, pink eyes crinkling as her ever present smile mocks her. The scent of lavender reaches Lavandula's nose and not for the first time she considers the irony of her smelling of her namesake.

"Debauchery," Lavandula growls, narrowing her eyes as the cambion deftly turns the body and pilfers a small tome from an inside pocket. Then...something's different. Lavandula tilts her head and studies her.

They've danced this dance a hundred times—Lavandula finishes the job and as if on cue there she is. Untouchable with her wards, dangerous magic flowing from her like a disgusting miasma. Taunting her. Flirting with death.

Her appearance hasn't changed—same black purple trimmed bodice, same dark hair tied into two messy braids, same spiraling horns... She shakes some blood off the book, slipping it into her bag and meeting Lavandula's eyes. Same smug expression as always, but Lavandula doesn't sense... Anything.

No wards.

No wards? Lavandula tightens her grip on the still bloodied dagger. Has she noticed?

Debauchery just holds her gaze steadily, not saying anything. Lavandula stares back.

Then with a growl she lunges at the cambion, slamming her into the ground, dagger at her throat, straddling her and pinning her in place.

She doesn't resist. Her expression shifts to something... Intense, and Lavandula freezes.

This close, the scent of lavender and blood is overwhelming. Lavandula swallows, schooling her face into an expression of displeasure, "Where are your wards, Debauchery? Finally giving up?" she hisses.

Debauchery smiles again, but her eyes become no less intense. "I don't need them anymore," she answers, simply.

Lavandula's lip curls, "What is that supposed to mean?"

She says nothing, just looks at her.

The fabric of Lavandula's glove creaks as she grips the dagger in her hand. A trickle of blood—his blood, not hers—travels down the cambion's throat. Lavandula feels her breath on her, and her hand begins to shake.

Debauchery just lays there beneath her, watching. Waiting.

Lavandula growls at her and rears the knife back—

SLAM!

—and wedges it between the stones beside her head, enchantments flaring and finding no purchase.

Not even a flicker of fear or doubt. Lavandula snarls, "You do not know me, Debauchery!"

Debauchery gazes up at her with gentle eyes. "But I could," she murmurs, finally moving and lifting a hand to Lavandula's face, brushing her fingers through Lavandula's hanging hair. Lavandula's eyes go wide and she jerks back violently, cheek tingling from the brush of her fingers.

She yanks her dagger free and stumbles backwards, a haunted look on her face. "You won't," she spits, and begins tracing symbols in the air. Moving from his silent perch in the rafters, Soren lazily circles his way down from the beams to join her. He lands on her shoulder, and his red eyes meet with Debauchery’s. Then with a flash, he and Lavandula are gone, leaving nothing but a faint purple haze in their wake.

—⚔—

Lavandula withdraws the dagger out with a flourish, flicking off the blood and sheathing it in one fluid motion. At that same moment, she hears footfalls and whips around to face her—because of course it's her, even if the carpet muffles the hoofed nature of her feet, she'd recognise those self assured footsteps anywhere.

The door clicks open, and with it comes a waft of lavender. Her pulse quickens.

"Lavandula," Debauchery says with a smile, like she always does. Then, with a quirk of her brow, she seems to notice something—cocking her head curiously. Lavandula's eyes narrow, confused. But whatever it is she saw, she says nothing, turning her attention away from the elf and looking down at the corpse. She hums, but does not move to take her spoils.

Lavandula stands there unmoving, eyes locked on her. Unusual. With a murmur, Lavandula's eyes flash and take on an unnatural sheen. A few different expressions flicker across her face. Surprise, confusion...an almost unguarded look—before being immediately replaced with a snarl as she springs forward, slamming her into the wall.

"Bold of you to show up unprotected again, Debauchery," she hisses, "You'll regret lowering your guard so easily." She grasps Debauchery's hands with hers, intertwining their fingers to prevent her from forming any runes.

"Is that so?" Debauchery says, eyes dancing. She closes her fingers around Lavandula's and leans forwards, putting her face inches away from hers. For a split second, there's a brush of warm breath against long, elven ear as she whispers a single word—

"Bruiete."

Before she even finishes the word, the air begins to hum with powerful arcane energy. In rapid succession, three of the beads on Debauchery's wrist burst, unleashing purple arcane symbols into the air. With the last syllable Lavandula is flung several feet into the air, her vision going white as she slams into the late lord's ornate side table, splintering pathetically beneath her. It all happens so fast, Lavandula could barely even blink.

A strong ozone scent hangs in the air, like lightning just struck. She grabs her head, ears ringing, and with a hiss she realises the palms of her gloves have been burnt away, leaving her hands raw and stinging. She curses internally for forgetting the woman's runestones.

"Do not misunderstand, my dear," Debauchery says, and Lavandula blinks her eyes back into focus. Through her arcane eyes, the cambion is surrounded by a thick swirling smog of magic. It hangs heavy in the air—a repellant, cloying sensation on her senses, and Lavandula knows she couldn't touch Debauchery if she tried.

"I am more than capable of protecting myself," Debauchery continues. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the magic is gone. Debauchery stands before her, unobscured by any spells or charms, a soft smile on her face. She walks slowly towards the elf, extending a hand towards her, "It is not me who has lowered their guard."

"What is that supposed to mean," Lavandula growls, drawing herself up, ignoring the outstretched hand and stepping away.

"Lavandula," she says gently, and her face does that again. "You've already put the dagger away."