NONE SO VILE

01: The Common Dead

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

           The peasant dead were full of hate and petty grievances. Alabaster felt them through the soil – rotting corpses buried in the cold ground, the essence of their souls leaking away like wine from a punctured barrel.

Such a waste.

There was pain in his chest, a dull twinge accompanying each of the dragon's shallow breaths. He was mindful to keep his breathing slow and regular, the coffin they'd thrown him in only had so much air, and it would be foolish to use it all up panicking.

One numb claw went to his chest, prodding for any wounds. He was missing a shirt, but there was no blood to be felt smeared across his ivory scales, and certainly no damaged flesh. Not a musket, and certainly not a blade. 

A cough tore its way up his throat, bursting free with a spatter of thick fluid, sharp pains stabbing at his innards. It was agony to hack up, but despite the burning in his throat, all Alabaster felt was relieved.

Poison. They'd have to try harder than that. 

Questioning claws ran up across the rough-hewn wood of the coffin. This one was built cheap, unsurprisingly, the grain of each plank wide and matte. Why bother with a coffin? Hardly worth the trouble, for one last moment of dignity. More likely, it had been the easiest way to transport a body outside the city without raising questions. 

Alabaster turned his focus outside the coffin's thin, weak walls, stretching his awareness over the spiteful dead energy pulsing through the ground. Most people had no idea what a resource dead bodies could be. Even after death, it took weeks for the flesh to rot away completely, and longer still for their essence to dissolve. Where it went after that, Alabaster didn't care, but it was there, and it was something to be used. 

He drew his claw back as much as was possible in the cramped space, curling his claw into a fist and punching up at the peasant wood. The scales on his knuckles were shredded by the fifth blow, but they would grow back. It was only pain, after all, and as Fayez always said – pain is temporary. 

Wood splintered above him in the dark, loose grains of dirt falling through the newly-formed cracks and onto his face, turning to mud as they mixed in his saliva. Alabaster did not care for comfort, he spurred himself on with thoughts of what he would do to the would-be assassins when he found them. He could see it already – the fear in their eyes, the panic in their quivering voices. First they'd beg him to let them go, and then they'd beg him to let them die. He would, but they'd be fools if they thought that was the end of it. Death is only another beginning. 

Ignoring the pain coiling through his chest, Alabaster continued to punch up at the coffin's lid. The assassins had buried him in a commoner's graveyard, probably a short trip outside the city limits. It was intended as one final insult, no doubt, but Alabaster was far from offended, in fact he was ecstatic. The corpses here were buried unceremoniously, the vast majority thrown in atop one another, piled on with dirt as the superstitious peasantry begged their vengeful God to spare the rest. There were no coffins for the poor here – the commoners of Rennaire had bigger problems to worry about than the sanctity of their deceased.

Skeletons were useless. Piles of bones with nothing to steer them. Fresh corpses were too stiff, filled with noxious gases and spasming muscles. Instead, Alabaster searched for the half-rotten cadavers, those were the most useful. Arms with exposed bone and wasting flesh, the last remnants of sinew tying the joints together, that's what he wanted. He tugged on their leaking essence like a puppeteer on a marionette, spurring the dead into a mechanical imitation of life. Lift an arm, curl a half-eroded paw, move them slowly at first, then faster, the peasant corpses squirming through the dirt like eels in a swamp, little more than mindless reanimated meat mushing to their master's will. 

Filth poured down on Alabaster's face as he broke away yet more splinters of wood, dead fingers rushing in to fill the gaps, ripping the chunks upwards and clawing away the dirt. He didn't need much, he never had – only a tiny pocket of air, enough that he could wiggle up, enough to take a shallow breath. 

Keep at it, just like that. He used the dead to help break up the soil, feeling their clumsy swipes brushing against his face as they hurried to obey. Pain squeezed his organs and numbed his muscles, but Alabaster pushed through. The assassins were alive, comfortable, and safe. They probably feel invincible, don't they? They're probably laughing even as I dig myself up through the mud, sipping wine and smoking tobacco as they mull over what brilliant backstabbers they turned out to be. They were swine, and they'd die like swine. 

Squealing. 

Grinning despite the mountain of dirt falling in his face, Alabaster continued to crawl upwards. He wormed his way free of the coffin, pushing through the dirt, moving the bodies around him to use as leverage. They had no concept or understanding of his commands, their conscious minds had long rotted away. This was dead muscle with life breathed into it, and Alabaster held the reins. 

The grave was shallow, but it was still slow-going as he thrashed and kicked, the poison racing through his veins, doing its best to shut his body down and end him then and there. They should have taken my head, the squeamish maggots. It was a mistake they wouldn't be allowed to repeat.

Finally one shuddering claw burst through the topsoil, cool air and warm sun sending instantaneous relief shooting through his body. Kicking and gasping, Alabaster clawed furiously, determined not to become stuck, forcing himself further up, breaking an elbow free, then a second claw, then finally his head. The light was blinding, the forgotten detail and colour of the world practically assaulting his senses. 

It was a sunny autumn day, the perfect kind of weather to come back from the dead. 

Shaking the last vestiges of dirt from shoulders, Alabaster dragged his hips free of the sickly mud, kicking his numbed legs out. They'd taken his clothes after he took their poison, leaving him with only the loose breeches he typically wore beneath his robes. Alabaster released his hold on the dead below, bracing himself on his claws and knees.

His scales glowed a brilliant ivory as they drank in the sunlight, deep crimson currents lancing between them like veins of ruby etched into marble. His body was muscular, yet another resource well-maintained. One claw trailed over the nest of faintly curved horns stretched out from the back of his skull, jutting from the rear of his neck out into the air. He'd always been thankful that his horns had grown straight out – many dragons had theirs twist and curl forwards as they matured, which Alabaster had always seen as impractical. His were packed in close, and unlikely to catch on doorways and fabric if he needed to run. 

The urge to bask in the warmth was deceptively soothing. How lovely it might be to rest in the soil, sunning his cold blood, filling his mortal lungs with fresh crisp Rennairan air… but that was the poison talking. It wanted him to slow down, it wanted his consciousness to fade, all so it might rip further through his gizzard, turning his stomach black and stilling his heart. 

“Oh, may God ignore me… may God ignore me…" A voice muttered softly. “A ghoul, and here, please Lord… what have we done to deserve this?"

Alabaster stood slowly, turning to face the front of the small graveyard. A wiry fox in a leather vest stared at him with widened eyes, the iron rake in his paws falling away and bouncing in the dirt. “Stay back, ghoul!" The fox cried, raising a shaking finger towards Alabaster. 

A fair assessment, Alabaster considered. Dragons were a rare enough sight in any central Midland nation, let alone nearly-naked ones that had just crawled up from a grave. 

The fox scrambled forward, seizing his fallen rake and hefting it like a spear, aiming it towards Alabaster's midsection.

“I am no ghoul," Alabaster said, his voice hoarse. 

“Are…" The man swallowed. “Are ye an Angel? I've cubs here, so tell me true, are ye sent by the One God?" 

Alabaster sighed, gesturing above his head. “What do you think?" 

The fox's eyes followed, noting the empty space over the dragon's skull. He relaxed, lowering the end of his rake. 

“I wish you no harm, revenant's honour," Alabaster added, dryly. Already his patience was thinning. He searched the horizon, tall and wiry Hadria trees blocking his vision in every direction. They couldn't be far from Albedo, the assassins wouldn't have bothered travelling more than a half-day from the city at most. 

“Tell me, which way to the city?" 

The commoner pointed, gesturing down a narrow path. “Over that bridge yonder, and keep followin' the path out. You'll see soon enough, monsieur." Clearly the fox was anxious for him to leave, still not fully convinced that Alabaster wasn't some wicked ghoul sent by God to punish the hamlet.

Alabaster smiled wanly, though he knew the expression gave most canines little reassurance. “One final thing, and I will go," Alabaster stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Could I trouble you for a coat?" 

Wrapped in the thin leather coat the commoner had given him, Alabaster put the hamlet to his back, following the wending path through the Hadria trees and crossing over the dilapidated bridge. True to the fox's word, the spiked silhouette of Albedo stood proudly in the distance, and Alabaster continued to push through the spears ripping up his guts, forcing himself to maintain a steady pace as he closed in on the city. Hours ticked by, and by the time he'd reached the farms at Albedo's edge the sun was close to setting, long streaks of orange light bleeding over the fields. Several times he was forced to stop as his body hacked up more chunks of rancid fluid, red pinpricks of blood decorating the yellow globules of pus.

There's even some stomach lining there, he thought, bemused. Years of poison micro-dosage had given his body the strength to resist the toxin's initial effects, but it was determined to bring him down, nipping at his heels like hyenas chasing a giraffe.  

“Focus," he muttered to himself, wincing as the agonies lanced up his spine. Pain is temporary. Only temporary. Alabaster grunted as he limped further into the city, pointedly refusing to give into the poison. All that mattered was reaching his laboratory. There he could cure himself, and be rid of this hateful sickness once and for all. 

Not long now. Not long at all.

Seeing the half-dressed wingless dragon stumbling through their streets, coughing and spitting, most of the city folk probably thought Alabaster a foreign drunk. Even the cornerside solicitors did not attempt to harangue him, scowling as they turned their noses up while he passed. Most nations in Midland were populated by mammals, the scaled lizards and critters of the eastern deserts were rare here, and despite the cultural melting pot of Rennaire's largest city most inhabitants were still not accustomed to seeing anyone different from themselves. Small minds will achieve small things. Alabaster almost pitied their narrow worldview, but nothing was keeping them that way. The tools for change are right in front of you, it's only complacency holding you all back. 

The city was not kind to the poor. The middle-class bourgeoisie saw in them a possible future, one that absolutely terrified them. So they rejected those less fortunate, for fear of it catching. Not that it would have changed much, had they known who Alabaster really was, then they'd only despise him out of jealousy.

Their reasons did not matter to Alabaster, he hated them as much as they did him. He was born with nothing, with less than nothing. He came into the world with a debt attached to his name, and his bloodline's caste all but ensured he would never rise above it. 

Yet here I am, he thought, sneering right back at the commoners, watching as women pulled their children away as he passed. And here you are, begging for scraps like the mongrels you are. Beggars or working class alike, they were all hungry, and that made people mean, Alabaster had seen it before. Rennaire had an enormous population, and the years of war had not been kind to trade. Eventually the people would realise that all the money in the world couldn't buy them food that didn't exist, and when that day came, things would start to get nasty. When the wells dry up and the crops are not enough, one must always remember – you cannot eat money.   

The tops of the inner city cathedrals were visible now, peering up over the tower offices and towers of Albedo's districts. That meant Alabaster was close, painfully close – the cathedrals marked the Circle of Churches, a huge concentric ring of buildings, every third or fourth one another damned Church of the One God. It was a panopticon of faith, built to ward off corruption and remain an ever-vigilant exemplar for good men everywhere. The irony was palpable.

God's in his heaven, and all's right in the world, Alabaster thought sardonically.

Alabaster saw city guards marching in squads as he drew in closer. Their jack-boots shone, their muskets half-loaded and braced on their shoulders, bayonets affixed and barrels to the sky. The blue greatcoats of their order blended into a sea of grey, but the shining silver buttons and customary scowl made them easy to pick out of a crowd. 

They were scum, and worse than that, they were useless.

City guards were ranked by men too cowardly for the army, and too incompetent for the palace. Despised by everyone, their number was made up of small, petty men that scrambled for the smallest crumbs of power. These were men that Alabaster knew well, the same kind of men that made him fight as a child, and kept their boot on his neck. 

Useless. Without any official regalia they would not recognise him or believe his station. What Alabaster needed was a palace guard, or anyone familiar with the upper echelons of the Rennairan royal court, if he were to dare even these peasant-bludgers would only delight in teasing him.  

Although… he grinned to himself. The terror they'd feel the moment they realised he was telling the truth… it would almost be worth it.

“Damn it all," he whispered, bracing himself against a large stone archway dividing two districts, punching at his stomach to try and beat some sense into it. The sounds of the city were overwhelming, the din of arguing commoners, the cries of the begging poor and the proselytising holymen, the towering walls of brick and glass that crowded the streets only amplifying the violent hum. 

Alabaster pushed his nails into his palm, teeth grinding. Forget the city. Forget the guards. What he really needed was this fucking poison out of his body. 

Thoughts of murder spurred him on, of his claws in their guts, their screams in his ears. It brought a thin smile to his face. Alabaster had felt pain before, and no amount of it would keep him from his goals. It hadn't then, and it wouldn't now. Those pathetic slugs will forever mourn the day they buried me.

As he crossed the Median Canal, the Royal Palace finally came into sight. It was a grand building made of limestone and marble, situated in the centre of a lavish green garden and locked behind tall iron fences. Fountains surrounded it with centrepiece statues of ancient Rennairan heroes, dozens of flags featuring the nation's coat – a purple unicorn on the blue and gold shield – flapping bravely in the wind. 

Any relief Alabaster felt was quickly turned sour however, as he drew closer to the palace gates. He heard them before he saw them – the mob. A wavelike rolling wall of sound, words lost to the collective screams of fury and outrage.

They were packed in close, fists raised as they made their displeasure heard. The city guards stood dumbly by the palace gates, trying to decide the best course of action. 

“Move aside," Alabaster snarled, pushing a vixen from his path as he breached the edge of the masses. She whirled as if to tell him off, but one look at his sharp teeth and murderous glare changed her mind. 

As he pushed into the edge of the crush, he realised the crowd was focused towards the gates, circling around a clearway into the palace grounds, kept open by soldiers. A procession of wagons trundled inwards, the coachmen sheepishly avoiding the pointed glares of the crowd as they entered the royal gardens.

“Show us your cargo!" 

“That food belongs to the people!" 

“Why is a King fed when we go hungry?!"

“Gold-minted bastards!" 

“Treason!"

The guards by the caravan edge tried to warn the crowd back, but there were too many of them, constantly pushing inwards. They jostled and shoved against Alabaster, and he could feel the tide shifting as he desperately tried to swim towards at the gate. Look at me, damn you! He only needed a single glance, enough of a moment he could signal a palace guard to usher him through inside. But the poison knew he was desperate, and a sharp numbing agony shot through his sciatic nerves, sending him reeling in the thick crowd. Spittle foamed at his mouth as he snarled. No! Not when I'm so close! 

“Get back!" The guards cried, shoving back against the angry mob. “This belongs to the King!" 

“There's no food here for you lot!"

“You'll get yours! Now back I say!" 

The crowd did not like that. “LIARS!" 

Probably by accident, someone fired a musket shot in the heart of the crowd. The deafening sound of the shot echoed out in the sudden silence, black powder smoke filling the air. The lead shot flew harmlessly into the sky, but the crowd did not care, it was far too late. 

The entire scene erupted at once. The city guards cried out haplessly as they were set upon, the hungry masses clambering up onto the wagon's sides and throwing the drivers from their seats. 

Alabaster pulled away as ugly turned to violent. Smoke began to fill the air as more warning shots went off, commoners falling to tramplers, nearby women and children crying out as they tried to break free of the crush. The palace guards slammed the palace gates shut, abandoning the city guards and caravan drivers to the justice of the mob. Breads and grains came out of the wagons, thrown to people who instantly turned on one another. People cried, shoved, pushed.

Alabaster had to get away. The gates were locked and they wouldn't be opening for anyone. He quickly backed out of the crowd, hissing pain through his clenched teeth as he circled around the side of the grounds, slipping into a side alley. 

He ignored the cries of the beggars, their paws just pulling back in time to avoid his boots as he marched, one claw wrapped around his gut. Damn poisons, damn mobs. The King was ineffectual, terrified of his own people. For weeks Alabaster had been cautioning him to take action, to do something to show the commoners who was in charge. If the fool would only listen. 

At the end of the alleyway Alabaster vaulted the small parapet, the sounds of the riot chasing after him. He dropped to the other side and slid down into a waterway, boots splashing as he made his way down the outlet. On the streets above guards cried as they ran towards the chaos.

Alabaster paid them no mind, following the length of the canal until he found what he was looking for – the loose brick for his hatch. He undid the latch, stone grinding as he dragged the old door open. 

Preparation is the wife of victory. Fayez always said that. The Albedo Royal Palace was filled with secret passages and old foxholes, you just had to know where to look.

The path inside was gloomy, but he knew the way, keeping to the side wall as he swiped away cobwebs and dust, coughing and sputtering. Keep going. Don't stop. What an ignoble end it would be, to allow the poison to kill him here and now. 

Eventually Alabaster reached the end of the backrooms, unlocking another door and slipping into one of the palace's many wine cellars. He shut the door gently behind him, turning to find a musket barrel shoved in his face. 

“Stop right there, monsieur," the palace guard said. He was a young white cat, shifting nervously in place, barely filling out the metal breastplate strapped to his lean frame. He licked his lips, eyes darting, the ill-fitting fur hat on his head wobbling with each movement. “S-state your name, and business!" He flicked the musket, as if to emphasise his point. It was comical, like a toddler holding a spear. 

“Are you new here?" Alabaster asked. The palace guards knew him well, they should recognise him. “I am Alabaster Rafiq, advisor to the Crown."

“Y-you…" Recognition sparked in the young cat's eyes. He'd heard of the King's mystic, no doubt. “You can't be! Where've you come from?" 

I don't have time to play these games, boy. Bile burned in his throat.

“Listen to me. I must reach my laboratory," Alabaster said, stepping closer. The musket wavered. “I've been poisoned. The King should know, someone is murdering his advisors." 

“No," the young man's resolve hardened. “No, you're coming with me, and we'll visit my Captain, and he'll sort all this business out." 

As if on cue, an ice-cold knot of pain squeezed inside Alabaster's stomach, almost doubling him over. He wiped blood from his lips, staring at the pink fluid smeared on his claw. Not much longer left now. There was no time to entertain this child's suspicions, he was in the way, that was all that mattered.

“Turn around now, monsieur, patience now, and we'll get to the bottom of things!"

Pity. Alabaster fell forward, one paw reaching up and squeezing the musket barrel. The metal decayed in his grip, rusting away until it collapsed on itself. The young guard panicked, squeezing his trigger instinctually. The flintlock mechanism sparked and the gunpowder exploded, but the force could not travel forward – and so it went back. 

The musket blew up in the guard's face, wood splintering as two long shards of metal shot directly into his eyes. There was not even time for the boy to cry out before he collapsed to the ground in a heap, body twitching.

Alabaster felt the pain and hatred spurring him onwards, and part of him was tempted to leave the body where it fell. But it would only raise more questions, so he went to the trouble of dragging the dead cat back into the secret passage, locking him away. 

Sealing the door behind himself, Alabaster hurried up the stairs and into the main hall. The guards there actually recognised him, and were dismayed by his dishevelled state, trying to stop and ask if he was alright. 

“Get back, damned fools!" He growled, swiping away at them. There was nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could, except Alabaster himself. As usual. 

He focused on the end goal. On what he'd do when he found whoever had the gall to try and murder him. He actually laughed as he ascended the spiral tower towards his lab. 

As he reached the top floor, out of breath, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth, Alabaster braced himself against the wall.

I see.

The wide wooden door which typically guarded his sanctuary had been broken apart, hanging limply on its hinges.

Alabaster stepped forward, dismayed at the carnage inside. The lab was ransacked. His books had been ripped apart, his drawers pilfered, his glass vials shattered. 

A part of him faltered, then swelled with a sudden burning hatred as he saw what they'd done to Bellamy. The vulture was dead, pinned to the wall with a long, thin blade. Alabaster saw red. The poor bird had been his only true companion, the last vestige of his old life in Urdo, and the only good thing to come out of that dreadful time. Now he too was gone, all because of the violent urge of some pathetic low-life.

Why, poor Bellamy? They'd been together for ten years now. The bird was completely harmless, a defenceless animal. The hole in Alabaster's heart collapsed, and from his despair poured out rage. He's gone. Dead. Because of them. 

Three distinct voices echoed from the next room, their broad accents talking over one another as they bickered. 

“What are we s'posed to be bloody looking for?" 

“Whatever's useful, I dunno, can you read this shit?" 

“Fucking sand eater, thinks he's clever with his little scribbles, don't he?" 

“Look, just grab what you can." 

Alabaster stepped quietly to the doorway. The three men had their backs to him. They were dressed as palace guards, but one look and anyone would see through the disguise – no palace guard would ever dare wear their royal sash that lopsided.

A goat, and two foxes. The goat stood supervising while the two foxes knelt over a small trunk, poring over the contents. They'd wedged open the lock, damaged it beyond repair. He thought of Bellamy, and the hole in his heart the bird's death had left him with. I should have done more to protect him. His fingers curled by his side, shaking with rage. 

“You killed my bird," he said softly. The men all flinched, glancing back at him. 

The goat paled, expression sinking as he realised it was the man they'd buried standing before them. The fear quickly gave way to anger, and he raised his dagger, point gleaming in the dim lamp light. “Fuck your bird, and fuck you." 

“You took my knife, too." Alabaster jerked his chin at his kriss blade, dangling on the hip of one of the foxes. He'd kept that dagger nearly his entire life, and with it had killed twenty-six other orphans back in Urdo, before he met Fayez and became a Sangoma. 

His outrage had faded now, all feeling numbed away. Bellamy was dead, and Alabaster was empty. 

“It's our knife now," the goat spat. “What happened, you enjoyed dying so much you came back to do it again?" 

Alabaster cocked his head. “Tch. You maggots disgust me." 

The goat roared, lunging forward with a swipe of his blade. It was a lazy move, the kind used by people far more accustomed to stabbing others in the back – any halfway experienced knife fighter would see it coming from a mile away. Even with his body barely responding to him, Alabaster deftly weaved beneath the blow, effortlessly sidestepping the follow-up stab attempt. 

“Pathetic," he whispered, raising both claws and squeezing the goat's skull. “Now, look at me." He whispered an incantation, affixing his thumbs to the fault lines in the killer's temple. It was a weak mind, and it took less than a second for Alabaster to break. The goat's eyes blurred, clouding over as his expression grew limp, staring back deeply into Alabaster's own crimson gaze. He whispered the words of sorcery, shoving the goat back. 

“Lung?" One of the foxes asked, as the goat turned to face them. The two men were on their feet now, their own daggers out and raised. “What you doin'? Get him!" 

The goat said nothing, flopping forward like a ragdoll, a keen rasp ripping from his throat as he buried his dagger into the fox's chest. The men screamed together, slashing and cutting at one another. 

Alabaster moved aside. The hypnosis would hold, he only needed enough time to be rid of the damned poison slowly shutting him down. At his runic table, he took the old chalks, drawing out a rune on his slate. Some blood from his finger was dotted in place, the men scrapping with their ally at his back. 

Focus, work quickly, but deliberately. All the while he spoke words from a dead tongue, invoking the ancient magics of the world and pulling them into his rune. Alabaster was far from an Angel, but the teachings of the Sangoma had led him down a path of true understanding. Reality was his plaything, and with enough preparation and knowledge, anything could be accomplished.

Behind him, he heard the goat taking more knife wounds than he was dealing out. Puppets never held much self-preservation, and it made them poor fighters. Alabaster tried to ignore it, focusing on the rune before him. That is only a distraction, hold him only a moment more.

The rune was locked as the final fox finally bested the goat, whirling on Alabaster. The killer was spattered with blood, cuts lining his arms. Both his fellow assassins laid dead at his feet. “You black magic freak!" 

Alabaster's fingers curled, and the poison inside him shifted. He felt it in his veins, lancing through his body, hot then cold, slipping free of his organs and drawing up towards his chest. 

The fox ran forward with a war cry. Alabaster spun on him, grinning. The fox stumbled, panicking, but couldn't slow himself. The dragon spat the poison in his face, pale green fluid spraying into his eyes and mouth. The fox tripped, crashing into the wall as Alabaster danced away, his body already healing, the runes of undeath doing their dark work. 

“What did you do to me?!" The fox cried out, dropping his blade as his paws scratched at his face. “I can't see! bastard!" He doubled over, clinging to the workbench for dear life, stomach heaving as he retched, blood and bile pouring from his mouth and splashing on the bricks. 

“You killed my bird," Alabaster repeated. “Violated my sanctum." He felt his excitement rising. “And then you had the foolishness to deliver yourselves right to my feet, I should thank you, I suppose. Now you can tell me everything you know." 

“I ain't telling you…" The fox doubled over again, panting heavily, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He still covered his eyes, shivering with agony. “Anything! You'll have to kill me, you sick freak!" 

“If you insist," Alabaster said. He leaned in, snatching his old kriss knife off the thrashing fox's belt. He drew the curved blade, burying it hilt-deep into the killer's side. The fox howled, and Alabaster shoved him to the floor, kicking his ribs so he was rolled onto his back.

The fox laid panting, arms limp by his sides, blinded eyes staring upwards vacantly. 

Alabaster put a bare foot on the killer's chest, looming over him. Killing his vulture had changed things. The gleeful dream of cruelty was gone, replaced by a sense of cold exactness. The vulture was his only true friend, and they'd killed him, for no reason other than their own juvenile enjoyment. Alabaster did not murder for pleasure, even if he sometimes took pleasure in murder. 

Could the fox see him, even as a blurry splotch of ivory and red? He hoped so, he wanted the man to feel afraid, wanted him to feel small and helpless, the way that Bellamy would have felt before they butchered him.

“You'll…" The fox coughed up more blood, he was dying and he knew it. “Not get… anythin' out of me." He croaked out a single laugh. “Suck… on… that…" 

“I wouldn't be so hasty," Alabaster said. “After all, death is only another beginning." 

The fox's face screwed up, knowing his final triumph had been somehow dashed, but not exactly how. “Wha..?" 

The dragon grinned, teeth gleaming in the light. 

“Oh, my wriggling worm, I have such sights to show you."