Babette fell to the stone floor of the Sanctuary, twitching. This wasn't how it was supposed to go - Cicero's daggers were poisoned, carrying that same anti-vampire poison her own blade did, and despite all her injuries, Flandre Scarlet seemed unaffected. Her clarity of thought confused her before she rationalized it as shock, physical trauma that her body couldn't deal with and so had shut down in response, leaving her mind to wander until the pain set in. She tried looking for Cicero - the sweet, charming jester, the Keeper of the Night Mother - but all she could see was Arnbjorn leaping at the intruder. Instead of bowling her over and shredding her, like he'd done to everything smaller than a giant, even to the Dawnguard's armored trolls, he was halted, slammed to a stop in mid-air, and his head ripped off without effort, without care.
She'd only seen such strength once before, centuries ago. The Oblivion Crisis, it had ended up being called; she'd been a member of the Dark Brotherhood then. She had been at Fort Sungard, taking care of a troublesome Legion officer, when a Gate had opened up, spilling out daedra. Although the walls held against the lesser beings for some time, eventually a powerful individual stepped out, a great humanoid in terrifying armor. A small ballista on the wall had hit it, and it had been rocked, but it marched forward; a soldier had let out a bestial howl, transforming then and there in front of his comrades, and leapt down to charge the lord. The daedra had caught him, and then tore him apart. And as she watched Flandre Scarlet throw the headless body of her friend, her family member, into the pool, she understood the mistake she had made, that they had all made. She was no vampire; they had aroused the wrath of a great lord of the daedra, lesser than one of the Princes but still far beyond anything they could fight.
Festus Krex began his own attack, entirely of his own volition, and Babette tried to wriggle back, away from the heat of his magic. He, too, had been dismissive of their enemy's strength - sure, the College was wary, even fearful, but they lacked his insight into Destruction magic and his tolerance for bloodshed. If Flandre Scarlet were a vampire, such an attack would be effective, but she wasn't, and Babette tried to warn her remaining family. The flames died down, and she tried to raise a hand, tried to call out a warning, but when she'd lost her lower jaw, she'd lost her tongue, and the bone embedded in her throat kept her from making any recognizable sounds, only a loud, choking cough - and she saw Gabriella and Festus die, their heads slammed together by the monstrous strength of the daedra. She could only watch as it walked toward her, smiling malevolently, gleefully, and slowly, uncaringly, pulled the blades from its back and side. And then the rest of the family appeared, charging at it in a vain attempt to destroy it - but then Astrid was gone, nothing but an explosion and her skittering blade to say she had ever even existed, and Veezara died too quickly to follow, Flandre Scarlet darting forward to rip him open, and then Nazir … Babette closed her eyes and shivered. She'd always liked the old man, felt he was the 'father' of their little family. He fell, dropped to the ground, and Babette gurgled, trying to squirm away from her opponent - she wasn't a fighter, not a real one, and the pain was starting to really hurt. And then her own dagger was thrust into her leg, and she thrashed energetically for a moment as the poison entered her body. And then pain shot through her arm and she gurgled in agony as she was dragged through the Sanctuary.
For long, long minutes she endured being dragged through the Sanctuary, listening to mockery and insults and threats. She just wanted it to end; taunts were of no value, because she couldn't be broken any more. She kept a running catalog of her injuries, everything from teeth knocked out when her face was dropped onto a step to the snapping of her collarbone when she was slammed into her own bed. She cried out, of course - the pain was too much for her not to - but she knew it was only beginning. She would be taken back to a camp, perhaps even to the castle, and systematically broken apart. Flandre Scarlet wouldn't go into so much effort softening her up if lengthy, excruciating pain wasn't in her future. Babette convinced herself of that, truly believed it, until the moment they entered the room with the Night Mother. Her tormentor's reaction filled her with fear, and if she had been physically able to run, she would have, would have fought back any way she could. The Night Mother had been torn from her sarcophagus, sacrilegiously dumped to the floor, and she was being put in her place. She tried to scream, but only a gurgle came - she didn't want to do this, didn't want this to happen, would never condone such disrespect of the Night Mother … and then the lid shut, and locks snapped closed. Babette slid to the floor of the sarcophagus, only to be slammed into the roof as it was thrown, dartlike, and skidded against the floor.
She gurgled quietly in fear - she hadn't feared the dark in three hundred years, but this blackness, this lightless void terrified her, and she was distinctly aware of the fact that she was bleeding in the Night Mother's resting place. A broken piece of her mind kept screaming for her to clean it up before she got in trouble. She kept getting knocked around, her wounds screaming, her head cracking against the interior stone, and her legs finally gave out, unable to cope with the constant changes in direction. It was probably a good thing - the sudden rise was enough of a shock, and she heard laughter as the sarcophagus continued to rise. Giggling and cackling, that she must be imagining, because she could hear it far too clearly for it to actually be Flandre Scarlet's voice. And then, just as she was getting used to being pressed back, the coffin seemed to leap up and began tumbling end over end, and she heard more laughter inside her head. Women's voices, both almost … whispering, mocking, and amused.
She only realized something was wrong when it got even darker.
