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 That was before the bloodbath began.

 Nardtoleth was practically rabid, in the grips of a terrible rage. He slapped

Slipholath, hard, across her full, pouty lips.

 "I thought you said that Walt would never again return to his DemonSlaying

ways! What kind of a vampiress seer are you, bitch?!"

 She licked her lips, tasting her own blood, such that it was, the putrid

fluid, in comparison to the life-giving elixir she craved, and spat in his face, a

flagrant act of disrespect that would cost a lesser member of the tribe its

unlife.

 "Like all things barely known and unknown, that was a pronouncement of

probability! How was anyone, even I, to know that your stupid familiars would act

out of habit and provoke a known Slayer within his own territory?! I told you not

to allow them to desecrate churches and graveyards on his turf! And to permit them

their insane lusts for children was the final straw! You knew he had agents as

far west as Mobile, perhaps even beyond!"
 
 "You dare tell me how to administrate my minions?! I should feed your

worthless carcass to the soul-eater now!"

 She was livid with her own rage, now, a reflection of his own, the stress of

being the hunted telling on them both, "But you won't! Because you know, not only

am I right, I am your only hope of out-manuevering and defeating this band of do-

gooders!"

 "You'd best put your most adept pupils on their visioncaster! Now!"

 Sarcastically, she hissed, "As you wish- master."