Renoir coughed out as much of the filthy water as he could, hating the taste more than anything. The vampiress from before had used a large hook to fish him out of the reservoir, and she sat near him, holding a glass of fizzing water. Sniffing it once, he filled his mouth with it, swishing it around for a few seconds. He spat it out, not caring where it landed; the pump station he was in was dirty enough for him to know no one would be there to clean for a good while.

“We use that mint water as a mouthwash, but I figured it could get the sewage taste out just fine,” She said, smiling. She still wore her cloak, which Renoir knew was there only to obscure identifying features; it was much like his mask, though ponies needed to cover more if they wanted to be anonymous. She paused for a moment, looking over him. Frowning, she asked, “Doesn't that, I dunno, hurt?”

Renoir traced the line her hoof made as she pointed to his legs; specifically, she was pointing to his left shin, which was unnaturally twisted and looked rather severe. He'd probably be in pain, but he seemed to be in a slight state of shock. He was aware of his injuries, but was relaxed and incapable of caring about them. A golden glow enveloped his broken arm, weaving his bones together faster than he could ever work on another subject.

“Cool,” The vampiress said, watching the ethereal energy do its job. Her horn lit up as she lifted a bag of some sort over to Renoir; he noticed her aura was a light blue, similar to Rarity’s. “When you get done with that, have a drink; I figure you've earned it.”

“What in Oblivion is that?” He asked, looking at the strange material. He knew the dark liquid inside was blood, but the clear, shiny bag was new. He also focused on it solely to curb his thirst, which was gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Tamriellic vampires, as few knew, had two pairs of fangs: one replacing the upper canines, and a second pair disguised as the lower canines. They stayed within a normal size range until until the last stage of hunger, during which they grew until they matched the upper pair. Unlike the superior pair, the inferior fangs were hollow, used for transferal of blood from vampire to victim; that was the most effective way of spreading the infection.

“Blood bag, fresh from the good doctor downtown.” The mere mention of blood, the confirmation of his suspicions, was enough to make him forget about the pain in his legs, however severe it may have been. He could practically smell it, though he doubted it would taste as refreshing as a pint fresh from the source. “Or maybe you've ever seen plastic before?”

“You had my attention at blood.”

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Summer Glade felt powerful. Draped in polished armor and velvet finery, she reclined upon a throne, staring down at the man kneeling in her court. Reman sat next to her head, resting on one hand, looking rather disinterested. He wore a crown, made of what appear to be a single piece of carved bone, inlaid with shining silver.

“You may rise,” He said, never taking his eyes off the kneeling man. The young Tullius was far from the mercenary Glade knew; he was older, more regal, bearing the full authority flowing through his veins. Unlike the other Imperials Glade saw standing along the walls, he seemed feral while maintaining an air of culture. Was this how Imperial nobility went about their days, or did Reman now hold a seat of power? Either way, she had a distinct feeling that this room, this court, belonged to the two of them, and the men and woman standing to the sides were under their employ.

The kneeling man, who introduced himself as a seafaring merchant, went on about someplace named Anvil for what seemed like hours. Apparently, he was dissatisfied with their import tariffs, claiming they were much higher than Leyawiin's. Reman did his best to look as though he hung on every word but Glade could see he was bored out of his skull.

“My lord, you simply must do something about this injustice; high tariffs could ruin your entire region.” The merchant simply did not understand how Cyrodiil worked, how independent the Counts were. Counts inherited their titles, and it was rare for a new bloodline to take control; direct intervention from the Elder Council and the Emperor was required. Political alliances didn't change much, leaving old feuds a chance to persist.

“As close as Count Umbranox and I are, I have no influence over him,” He replied as kindly as he was able. “Now, as you said, Leyawiin's tariffs are much lower than Anvil's. If I were you, I'd dock there for the remainder of your career.”

The merchant looked outraged, and as he took a step forward, two halberds crossed before him. The guards looked rough, wearing their armor to maximize their mobility. The burning fire around the room masked a certain, familiar odor, and Glade realized why those two moved when Reman was clearly in no danger. Most, if not all of the guards were werewolves, but had different scents, meaning they were from different packs or did not belong to one. Given how large guard forces seemed to be, there was a small army under their command, which was exactly what Emperor Titus Mede wanted.

“Precisely, mortal.” Rose's voice rose from the nearest fireplace, something that could have passed for a statue plinth that was conveniently located next to her. The Daedric pony burst forth in a cloud of flames as the world seemed to slow to a stop. She shook the cinders from her fur as she landed, looking at Glade. She smiled maternally, blowing out a small fire that kindled on the expensive-looking carpet that trail from the thrones.

“So this is what happens when the Emperor builds the house for us?” It made sense for Glade to wonder that; everypony needed a job or hobby to keep themselves occupied, and ruling seemed to be something Reman could do, maybe even enjoy after a while.

“Not quite,” Rose giggle. She rather enjoyed her little talks with Glade; it was the main reason she even spoke to her anymore. She gestured to the frozen Imperial seated upon the throne. “What you have been seeing for the past few minutes is a day in the court of Reman Tullius the Beast-blooded, who serves as the newly-installed Count of Kvatch.”

“I can't imagine the locals were happy about their old Count being replaced?” Glade knew a good bit about Cyrodiil from what Rose had told her, Kvatch in particular. The current Countess, at least in reality, was a kind, old widow; her husband had died fighting in the Great War.

“Zelda was getting on in years, and her oldest child was unfortunately castrated in a carting accident.” Glade winced at the Daedra's words, having seen enough stallions take hits to the groin to know it was far from pleasant, let alone having them destroyed. “So, a concerned citizen wrote a letter to the Emperor, and Titus knew exactly who should sit upon the throne of Kvatch.”

“Nepotism?” She asked, fully aware of Reman's opinion on rulers. There was no doubt he could make for a fair leader, but it wasn't something he wanted. But, one does not simply refuse the Emperor when he bears such a gift, and House Tullius could make good use of the influence. Controlling a seat on the Elder Council and an entire County would give them an edge over House Maro, who had the Emperor's ear.

“Not at all,” Rose said sarcastically. “Who better to lead than a man who garnered an alliance between the Empire and Equestria, especially in such unsure times?”

“I'm really starting to wonder why you show me these things.”

“Child, this is but one future, and prophecy is within my domain.” Rose looked out over the court, taking a deep breath. She had seen countless lives play out before her eyes, understood every twist and turn their paths may have taken. Some were what she understood to be considered happy by mortals, but that was always subjective. “There are dozens, hundreds, of possible outcomes for the little tale you call life; it shall take great effort to truly choose how history shall remember you and your legacy.”

@#@#@#@#@#@#

Renoir learned pony blood satisfied his thirst rather nicely, and he was taking advantage of the amount the unnamed vampiress had provided. Under normal circumstances, he would never have drunk six pints, but the empty, plastic bags next to him were proof enough that he was starved. He was working down his seventh as he mended his legs enough to walk with only mild discomfort; the eighth bag was being saved for his return to Canterlot Castle, a last drink before sleeping until sundown.

“I rather like the material; it almost feels like skin,” He said, slipping his fangs from the emptied pouch. He spit the limp pack onto the pile next to him, swinging his legs over the table as he did so. He felt a rush of discomfort as his feet touched the ground, but that was about it. He looked over to see the vampiress looking at him, her mouth open is disbelief.

“Dude, I've never seen anypony drink seven pints without tossing any back.” Her voice made it clear she was impressed, but she also sounded a bit worried. Perhaps Equestria's vampires didn't drink as often as he did, or perhaps they were just used to consuming a smaller amount when they did. Either way, Renoir was capable of killing a man if he didn't measure exactly how much he fed, even on a good day. “How do you even have room for it all?”

“I make room,” He replied, patting his abdomen. Truthfully, there wasn't much room left; his belly was harder than stone, meaning he was at capacity, and would be until his body worked through some of the blood he'd consumed. He partially surprised to see his stomach hadn't bloated as it had when he was a neophyte. He attributed it to age. “How long have we been down here?”

“About three hours, why?” She cocked head to the side, knowing her eyes were the only thing visible beneath her hood's shadow. Renoir coughed into his hand as he started buckling his armor back on, working from his boots and cuirass.

“Because I figured it'd be a good idea to let you know Princess Luna will be tearing this place apart in an hour.” He strapped the leather of his greaves on, pausing only to retrieve the fitting for his groin. With a few buckles and buttons, his lower armor was attached to is cuirass, leaving only his arms and head exposed. “I don't think you want to be caught in that.”

“As tough as it is to take advice from a stallion in fetish gear, I think you may be onto something.” Renoir had to bite back a chuckle as the vampiress went to the door. He finished with his armor and followed her, stepping into the muggy cavern housing the pump station. “I probably have some explaining to do with the princess, don't I?”

“I believe so.” Renoir was starting to see how Reman had gotten so involved in Equestria; the vampire hadn't even spent a day in its capital and he somehow managed to make contact with a group of ponies that had been hiding from extermination for centuries. “As much as I doubt Celestia will like it, you should drop by the castle after sundown.”

“Why?” She asked, looking up at him, then quickly turning her gaze back to the brightening sky. The sun would soon make the surface uninhabitable, and she would be caught with her tail raised if she didn't hurry.

“You'll need to make your case to Luna, and she'll talk with Celestia. If things go well, you might not be wiped out.” Renoir may have been a vampire slayer, but he did not enjoy the punishment of the innocent, if there were such individuals. If the local vampires really did as the vampiress said, then there was little reason to see them burn, save Celestia's experience with them many lifetimes ago. “I trust you have no issue with this?”

“Worst case, I die either way. Might as well take this shot.” She looked up at him, smiling cockily. Renoir could see the plan forming in her head, and he already had his own in the works. “Just tell the big guy to keep the guards off my back, and I can find my way around.”