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or Ch26: Lady and the Tramp

It was a rainy evening the only sounds to be heard were the crackle of the fire and the rain beating against the frame of their cottage house. A young Nile, about three, sat on the floor with a small wooden toy horse making it gallop across the wooden floors, providing the occasional, “neigh-h-h-h,” for effects purposes; he had short blondish hair that would in time become sandy and darken as most children of that time had. His mother smiled slightly as she looked up from her leather bound book; her golden hair draped across her shoulders and pristine skin made her look like a porcelain doll that could not smile wider for fear of breaking. Her eyes were a deep sea blue that looked to be filled with a dark sorrow behind the brightness, even on the rare occasions they were not.

They had a comfortable life and house, though far from extravagant. Nile and his mother, Catherine, lived in a small stone cottage on the outskirts of town with two rooms: the commons room with the fireplace and the other was their shared bedroom, with two mattresses stuffed with down in the middle of the room. Their peace was broken with knocking on their wooden door; Catherine made haste in standing up and going to the door to greet their visitor.

He was a most unusual man, his hair was an unnatural color, purple like that worn by royalty, and his features seemed to have been carved from fine stones in order to recreate the beauty that Adonis had captured so long ago; his eyes were a passionate red and he had pointed ears. Catherine let out a gasp as she beheld the man, a faint rose color spreading across her face; Nile looked up at the man without much interest and went back to having his horse gallop. “Madame,” the man said in an elegant tone that spoke of extensive schooling, “I was but a humble sailor on the H.M.S Dolos, but I’m afraid that during the storm I was left at port when the ship was forced to set sail prematurely.” His every word seemed to be tailored in order draw Catherine further and further in to his appeal, admittedly making Nile jealous. “All I ask is: in exchange for my last shilling, you let me stay so I can find work and repay you when I am able.”

“Bu- but of course,” Catherine stuttered and motioned the man into their small cottage, “though I’m afraid our house will be cramped for one such as you, please stay as long as needed.” Nile kept watch of the stranger intently as his horse stopped galloping suddenly. “My name is Catherine Kaufman, and this is my son Nile,” she introduced the two of them.

“Is… you husband away?” The man asked.

The grief that filled her eyes came to the surface, a coming storm on the calm blue sea as she spoke softly, “I’m afraid he died in the war, at Yorktown.”

“Oh, I am truly sorry for bringing up such a painful memory,” He said, making it sound real enough.

“I’m sorry,” Catherine said, wiping away unformed tears, “I didn’t hear your name.” She changed the topic to one more pleasant.

“You may call me Lestat Chaudi,” he told her and raised her right hand, kissing the top of it as a greeting.

That night and the nights after for several months, Lestat slept on what was formerly Nile’s mattress while Nile slept with his mother; but as months turned to years, Catherine became more and more attracted to Lestat as the two of them spent more time together and Nile was back to sleeping alone on his mattress as the two of them slept together in bed.

The first two years were great for his mother, but Nile didn’t like the thought of his father, though just a blurry outline in his memory, being replaced or worse, Nile himself being replaced. That is not to say that Nile didn’t enjoy Lestat. The three of them would take frequent weekend trips to the country and tour the extravagant estates of the rich, all the while Lestat would detail his delightfully hair brained schemes to Nile. Said schemes would result in them being owners of the estate in the end, often eliciting laughter from the young boy.

The changes came slowly, but they came nonetheless. Lestat would come home later and later, Catherine would say to the young Nile, “he’s just working to put food on the table.” Nile watched as Lestat would come home drunk and grew violent towards Catherine; he was violently drunk, never laying a finger on her, but the accusations and curses he would level seemed worse than lashes for Catherine. After two years of that, one night Lestat just never came home after having burned through every last pound they had. A week later, a man in a black trim suit and matching hat came to the door; his face clean shaven so people would not miss his unmistakable expression of indifference.

Nile watched from the bedroom but turned away as the slip was given to his mother, like an animal knew of impending doom. His once proud and strong mother collapsed to the floor screaming with all her agony and pain: like a trapped animal in its death throes, and though Nile couldn’t see it the screams reached him and burned into his memory like they were a branding iron; while the man just stared down the wall, indifferent to Catherine’s pleas to let them stay. Their house and all of their property was repossessed as payments for Lestat’s excessive gambling debts.

Soon after, she fell ill with the disease then known as consumption while her and Nile were in debtors prison. She died in there, a husk of the woman she once was now filled with bitterness, pain, and hatred. Laying on her proverbial deathbed, Catherine took Niles hand in her bony fingers and made one last request of her son, “Find him, make him suffer, cut off his fingers and bury him in a hole until he wakes up, naked, clawing at the ceiling of his grave.” With her last words she died and left Nile to carry on her own vendetta.

Nile escaped the prison shortly after and onto the streets; his anger to the man who killed his mother and ruined his life was the only thing that kept him alive for fifteen winters, dwelling among the urchins in the streets. He did whatever he needed to survive: stealing, conning, and even killing to get by, determined to make the last body at the end of his bloody path that of Lestat Chaudi.

It was a humid spring, as it always was. Nile sat in his alley, nursing a flintlock pistol he got off some merchant he killed; then she came, golden hair draped down her back and was wearing a elegant dress with sparkling jewelry. The night was cloudy and the streets were abandoned, unfortunately for his victim; Nile stepped out of his alley and pointed the gun at her “You, hand over your jewels or I’ll blow a hole in your pretty little face,” he said, mostly bluffing. He wondered what kind divine prank would have this girl look as his mother, though his legs grew weak he blew his dirty now brown hair out of his face.

A man who was blonde and in a rather dashing suit came up behind her “Elizabeth, you know not to walk ahead, these,” he paused to find the right word, “things can’t be trusted.”

“You,” Nile said to take charge, “hand over your wallet, and don’t try anything, I’ll kill her.” He kept his pistol on Elizabeth. Unafraid, the man drew his flintlock pistol with a sleek silver barrel. “I’ll kill her, I will!” Nile shouted.

“I doubt that,” the man said casually, “if you were, you would have already; and you know if you shoot her, I’ll blow a hole in your neck so I call your bluff.”

“Brother,” Elizabeth muttered, fear permeating her voice. Panicking, Nile aimed the gun at the man but hot lead tore through his hand with a thick crimson splattering the streets and he dropped the gun.

The man lowered his smoking weapon, he walked over to Nile and picked up Nile’s flintlock and put it to Nile’s head “I told you,” the man said arrogantly.

“Brother, no!” Elizabeth cried out and grabbed her brother’s arm.

“Sister,” The man said yanking his arm away, “this man is just street trash; he attacked you and needs to be put down.” Nile braced for the shot, believing it would all end like this that Lestat wouldn’t pay.

“Alexander!” Elizabeth screamed sternly though her hands quivered, a bright red filled her irises “Put down that awful weapon!” she demanded.

Alexander saw his sister’s eyes and went over to her, not dropping the pistol but putting putting it in the pocket of his over coat. He grasped her fists and held them up as she struggled to get free of him. “Sister, sister,” he said to calm her down, “you had another attack.” His calming worked as Elizabeth’s struggling slowed and finally stopped, the three black objects that were forming in the red in each of her eyes spiraled away into nothingness and the red drained from her irises. “Come, we need to get to the church.”

“Brother,” Elizabeth interrupted him and looked at the dumb struck Nile, “let us take him to the church.” Alexander tried to object but she shushed him. “It’s not our place to judge brother, remember to love those who would curse you.”

Nile was still awestruck and in more than a little shock from not being killed, so he didn’t resist as Alexander manhandled him all the way to the church. When they got there a man dressed in red, the cardinal, came out and took the siblings away while the monks clothed and fed Nile as per the request from the sibling; they trusted Nile could bathe and feed himself.



Dragoon woke up with a jolt when some pig thing bumped into him. He was in the competitor’s hall under the Gladius Maximus which smelled surprisingly like animal s**t considering they were nowhere near the animal pins; though with further consideration of his company, it didn’t seem that surprising actually. The other competitors included a one armed man, a little girl who spoke in a demonic voice, and a young man with a heavy coat and long sword strapped to his back; he had brown hair that was draped across the back of his neck and it looked like had been suffering from months without a haircut.

Michael flipped a piece of candy he got from the warden’s office to the little girl, thinking she was the daughter of a competitor and not one herself. It surprised him when she responded in a demonic voice, “Gorloc may spare you yet when Gorloc baptizes the world with the flames of hell.”