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Whispering Shadows
The dark, ominous figure stood in the broad street of Paris that housed the large mansion of the man known as Comte de Saint Germain.

The Count was why this strange, malicious man had come.

The powerful, evil man laid his pale hand against the stone wall of the house. Blue sparks curled down his fingers and into the wall, and the air was suddenly filled with the smell of saltwater as his aura flashed gray-blue.

Blue veins spread from his fingers and curled into the wall and slowly spread beyond it, into the yard, with its exotic flowers, and creeping towards the house.

The sorcerer stroked his long black beard, his sable, beady eyes watching carefully as the veins solidified into a large spreading plate of ice...

Joan was still sitting at the long kitchen table when the chill hit her. It was like a wind blowing through Siberia in the winter, except no glasses shuddered, no chairs were knocked over, and no window stood ajar.

Magic.

She stood suddenly, spilling her cup of coffee on the table but ignoring it. Saint-Germain had left a few minutes ago to take the Disir to the river Seine, where it would float out of Paris and hopefully all of France before it melted. But even if it didn't the Valkyires wouldn't attempt to attack them again; they were too afraid.

Joan of Arc turned towards the door when she noticed blue sparkles along the wall. She walked towards it slowly, her brow furrowed in confusion. She laid her soft hand against the wall and felt an unusual numbness stick to her fingers. She pulled away swiftly. They were ice crystals, summoned by only the most powerful magic.

Magic like Saint-Germain's magic of fire.

Elder magic.

One moment she was standing in blue jeans and a white tank-top when her aura cracked to life and she became an armor-clad warrior, complete with two handed sword. Lavender filled the air as the stars turned to veins, and the veins began to solidify the space between them, becoming one full wall of ice...

And then it shattered.

Millions of glass-like shards whizzed past her and clanged against her armor, and standing in the doorway stood a tall, dark man who radiated the same sort of power that Saint-Germain emanated whenever he used the Magic of Fire he had taken from Prometheus. But this was an ordinary man.

An ordinary man, Joan suspected, who had taken the elemental magic from one of the Elders.

Just... like... Saint... Germain...

"Who are you?" The dark man asked, his silhouette blurred in the twilight.

"I am Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans," She said, voice icy and cold. This man had entered her home and was demanding of her! She shivered slightly as she remembered how the Disir had done the same thing, and the outcome of that situation had almost caused the death of millions Parisians, not to mention her best friend, Scathach, the Warrior, whom had saved her and trained her. Without the Shadow Joan would be dead. Although registering the feeling this sorcerer gave her made her think that that wasn't so far off...

"I have heard of you, but what are you doing here?" He said dismissively. By now the ice veins had ceased spreading through her newly remodeled home. He had already partially destroyed her kitchen, and she had no intention of letting him leave without paying for it... In blood.

"This is my home," She said slowly, controlling her anger loosely.

"I am looking for the Comte de Saint-Germain; we go, er, way back. I was not aware that he had wife."

She ignored his statement and said quietly, "I am going to count to three, and within that time I advise you to leave my home."

"Is that really necessary?"

"One..."

"Do not do this Joan..." He warned.

"Two"

"I do not wish to cause you anymore pain than what you already went through with the Disir and Nidhogg."

She froze. Her angry face fell to that of shock. "How do you…" She didn't wait for an answer before she made the conclusion: "You are no friend of my husband's, and you are definitely no friend of mine." His aura cracked to life around her, filling the room with a silver light and the smell of lavender.

The intruder's aura flashed to life, gray and indigo patches encasing his body in a dully colored cocoon. The bitter odor of saltwater washed through Joan's nostrils, making them flare. She held back the cough that was building in her throat, and stretched her aura out farther, its silver light pulsing as it filled the room. The bitter aroma of saltwater and lavender mixing made her eyes water.

His aura did the same; whips of blue, auric energy lashed out and met her aura, but were quickly dissolved by the power of hers. Where the two met, they created a wall of energy, neither side allowing the other to pass through. Now the battle would be fought with durability and strength.

Joan knew that she could outlast this man, the arrogant tilt of his head and smug voice hinted at power, and she could not win a fight if her aura was weakened in any way. While her main force was skill in fighting, she knew many spells that could make this strange man putty in her hands.

And she intended to use every last one of them.

She pulled in her aura on herself, withdrawing the silver light, forcing his aura forward, weakening his defenses even more.

When the sorcerer realized that she had withdrawn her power, he lowered his defenses, expecting to see an unconscious body lying on the floor. When the cloud of his aura had pulled itself back into its original size, he saw...

...nothing.

The floor lay empty of any life, let alone someone with a silver aura, which hinted at undeniable power.

He had walked to where Joan had been standing, when a voice of bitter contempt murmured behind him: "What is your name? Who are you?"

"I was known in my Russian homeland as Grigory Rasputin." He said, whirling around, expecting, again, to see the woman, but found only the gaping whole in the wall.

"Ahh yes, Rasputin, the khlysty. I have heard of you years ago. The records say you died."

"I was a profound sorcerer and a magician before I became immortal," He said, annoyance leaking into his voice as the whispering shadows continued.

"Well, immortal human Grigory Rasputin, you have entered my house, and made demands of me. You threaten me and my husband, and you wish to bring harm to us both. You are no friend of either mine or Saint-Germain's. You, sorcerer, are not welcome in my home."

And with those final words, Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, leapt from the shadows, clad in armor and wielding an overlarge two-handed sword, a mask of vile hatred worn gracefully on her beautiful face as she lunged at him, ready for the kill...