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About Nikita Vicci

Matharyn, Talingarde

The elegant sound of chamber music filled the small
square as couples whirled and spun, dancing the
minuet. Like the dancers, the revelers on the outskirts
wore fine porcelain masks leaving their chins and
mouths bare. The crowd of one hundred, mostly
students and faculty from nearby St. Marcius’s
Seminary and University were of the cultured variety,
and fine wine owed like water.

Known as Varsill, this borough of Matharyn, capital of
the holy nation of Talingarde, was populated primarily
by artists, scholars and the bourgeois. Small festivals
such as this one had first begun some ten years
previously, an excuse to drop high moral walls and
relax with kindred spirits. The Church allowed such
parties to continue, understanding that scholars and
those of artistic bent needed some release outside
religious observance.

Such understanding from the Church hierarchy was
rapidly waning however as tales of drunkenness and
casual sex began percolating throughout the city.
Such came to a head during the festival three years
past when the half-elven High Lord Barcan was
revealed to be in attendance. Caught literally with his
pants around his ankles, the noble lord was rapidly
whisked from the borough by his personal guard and
still denies rumors of his presence to this day.
Carriage service had been cancelled this year after the
setting of the sun in an effort to limit non-Varsill residents
from attending the festivals. This policy was partially
successful in limiting the numbers of revelers, yet an
absolute disaster in the long term health of the borough.
Left to their own devices, and without interference from
the other boroughs, both students and faculty procured
even more wine. The level of public drunkenness increased
proportionally and rumors began circulating of private
parties attended by scantily clad women of negotiable
virtue.

Nikita watched as the Chair of Classical Studies chased
three nude girls around the divan. The sixty year old man
cut quite the comical gure, his massive paunch resting
atop tindertwig legs. Huffing and puffing, the ancient
scholar finally caught the youngest of the three, running
half-heartedly like the others. A quick glance to Nikita
was met with a slight nod as the older woman gave
approval that the Chair be inducted into the inner
sanctum. Retreating through the door behind her, Nikita
strode across the room beyond to a door on the far side.
Sliding back the barred viewing port, the twenty year old
madame checked the revealed hallway for traffic. Seeing
none, she passed through the door heading for the far
end of the passage. Thick doors stood closed on each
side, the sound of whimpers, cries and moans of pleasure
coming from behind each.

The quick turn of a wall sconce at the end of the hall swung wide a
hidden doorway, leading the young woman to her office. Tossing her
cloak onto the chair behind her desk on the far side of the room,
Nikita stood for some minutes at the giant glass window covering
one whole wall. Below, naked figures writhed in ecstasy and pain.
Nodding her approval, Nikita watched as the drunken Chair entered
the room at the soft insistence of his new companion.

Nearly two decades had passed since the origin of this plan,
although Nikita herself had only been involved in the most recent
year. Hidden sites such as hers dotted the borough, five in all, with
hers being the most recent. Such a post was a rarity for one not born
to Kyton blood, yet it was a necessity here in Talingarde where the
Mitral clergy could easily detect the wickedness exuded by even the
lowest of the Shadow Plane hierarchy. While she had secretly wished
to return to her own world, the young Avistani was well aware of the
unlikelihood of that eventuality.

Without warning, the sound of screams picked up, causing the
young woman to quickly scan the room below for their source. The
naked revelers below, far gone in drugged wine, had yet to notice
the din however, and Nikita quickly turned to the door she had so
recently entered. Sliding aside an eyehole, she just caught the white
samite and steel armor of a Mitral Paladin entering one of the rooms
o the hallway. Cursing her luck, the fetchling knew her end had
come. No escape would be possible for her, for her smooth grey skin
marked her if ever she stepped beyond the confines of this house.

Reaching for her crossbow, Nikita prepared to sell her life as dearly as
possible, taking up a position on the far side of her desk. Nearly an
hour passed, and much of the din died down as the young woman
tried in vain to keep the blood owing in her legs while remaining
below the level of the window behind her. The paladins had found
that room twenty minutes ago, killing all of its inhabitants in shocked
horror. It was too much to hope that they would fail to notice the
glammered wall with its giant window, yet Nikita could not help
herself.

The door across the room ew from its hinges, careening over her
head and out the very same window with a smash of broken glass.
Stepping over the still burning carpet, High Inquisitor Solomon
Tyrath himself entered the room, his at stare immediately picking
out the rooms sole inhabitant. A at slap accompanied a speeding
crossbow bolt, well aimed for the inquisitor’s head yet stopped by
some unseen field. With no time to reload, Nikita stood as five
paladins rushed into the room, swords raised.

Despair gripped her however as she was clubbed to the ground, one
paladin’s pommel red with blood from the wound to her head.
Consciousness quickly ed, just as it had done so a mere fourteen
years previously, though her captor could not be more different.
“Sshh, don’t speak, my dear.” Standing above her, the High Inquisitor
looked almost concerned, an emotion clearly belied by his eyes. “We
have special plans for you. There will be plenty of time for talking
later, you have my word on it.”