It was a dark and gloomy night, where nothing made sense and all light seemed to run away from him, or so thought a lonely child, sitting in his room, trying to ignore the sounds from the rooms next to his own.

It always is like this for him, he reasoned. It never changes. What even is the point? He has spent far too long, doing nothing. Waiting. Stupidly letting his blood father dictate his life. So he rose, gathered his things up in a little bag he would carry with him even as a shadow, and began to make his way out of their castle.

However, his fortune was as bleak as it had proven so far, and said progenitor chose that moment to stop... harming his victims, instead turning to look upon his child leaving the house, as abruptly as a gun's bullet ricocheting off a concrete wall.

And it is with that same speed that both father and son, recognizing the other's senses upon them, merged into the floor, and the lights dimmed, and the case began.

The child, smaller, could fit more easily in the crevices of the surrounding forest, but the father, more experienced, had more stamina, and a faster pace. It was akin to a owl chasing a rat through a body of trees, unable to see its prey, but always aware of its general position, and situation. It would know, should it bleed, as it would know when it stopped running, thinking itself safe.

And the owl could wait. It always had waited. Waited for a moment of weakness of his own progenitor, showing more wisdom than his own progeny, striking him down where he stood, knelt proposing to yet another woman. Yet again chasing the memory of his mortal wife, finding reflections of her in frivolous affairs, lasting no more than a hundred years, and harming both of them.

He had to go. And he did, if not softly. But he learned from him, as was his partial intention. He learned, how to raise a child, and as such, he was prepared for this. Around the forest were his trusty knights, undead of the finest bindings and thralls of such power the ground quaked at their marching.

The boy had left his house and marched himself into a trap. The foolishness of youth, when one still believed in their mortal ideals. yet, the child ran, and ran fast and far, striding where he could not, whimpering in pain as his curved fangs scraped off some skin here, some hair there, always closer to grabbing a hold of his prey, dodging branches and spots of sun alike.

Thankfully it was raining, so they were very rare. Britain, such a lovely weather. One of the many reasons he moved here, along with the vacant seat... well, it was of no matter to the chase, really.

His focus restored, he finally found the child, his shadow refusing to coalesce into its mortal coil once more, still scurrying this and that way, heading towards a clearing. He was on his lòast legs, and his father knew it. He was so tired he couldn't even properly see where he was going anymore, and headed right for a clearing.

He passed him, easily sweeping over him, unseen and unfelt, and began to form back at its center. The time for another lesson had come, it would seem. The child finally reached him, his desperate run stropping as he hit the man's feet, his shadowy form bouncing off his progenitor's. He formed back up on instinct, unable to sustain the effort anymore.

he looked above him, as he sat panting on the ground, and saw the two glimmers of red that were his creator's eyes, staring balefully down at him.

Oh, this time he was done for sure. The man raised his hand, held in his grip an obsidian black sword, and its tip rose up high in the sky, and it kept rising, and to the child it seemed as a mountain's top, standing alone, jewel of the horizon, reflecting on its spiked tip the light of what little sun the rainy clouds let through.

Rain, mixed with tears, wet his eyes, as the forms became blurs, and his body went numb, the sword-

And then, he awakened. Yet the same old nightmare, even well past his first millennia. How unbecoming, he would say. He looked around himself and found nothing but trees. Familiar trees. Well, while he was no longer in his own crypt, he certainly wasn't too far either, as the air was British, the pungent taste of local magic flowing through his body reminding him of fond memories.

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Then, he finally noticed yet something else in his surroundings. Namely, that it wasn't the mortal realm at all. No, it was a cut-off part of Aether, or something akin to it, but still touching the other side somehow.

He had never seen something like this. Either he had decidedly overslept, or he had been kidnapped by something most foul and powerful, he thought, raising his gauntleted arm to his flank, and reaching for his sword. The same black blade from his dreams found itself perfectly locked in his grip, and he took a second to look it over.

It was a two-handed sword, the metal unknown to him but hardier than any other he, and his ancestors, had ever found, its edge slick with condensed blood, that he would be able to use and command. Spikes came at its pommel, and another pair some way above the guard, its full height far more than his own, yet somehow fitting by his side without reaching the ground below.

It was double-edged, taller than him, black yet crimson red, and alive and thirsty in a way it had never felt from the blade. Its thirst for blood had to be quenched, or it would send him into a rage, he knew. Then, he would have no hand in his victim's death, as he drank of their blood as a dying man would of water.

And then someone scoffed with clear disdain from behind him. He turned, sword raised already, to meet his kidnapper, and found none other than- a little girl?! "Yo, old man. T'hell were you doing, trying to suck me, of all people, dry?"

She was a little girl, somewhat cute, he supposed, with bluish skin, and long, pointy ears. Her eyes were filled with both hate and humor, as her green clothes, of a kind he'd never before seen, waved in a breeze he could not feel. She didn't even reach his flanks.

Yet it was her words that sent him for a loop, said in an adorably cutesy voice that sounded as glass cutting itself into shards to his ears. It made him want to tear his ears off and wail in pain. Yet he stood at the ready, not showing any sign of distress, as he was trained to do. "Who art thou?" he calmly asked, adding as an afterthought, "Hast yee brought us here?"

A beat of silence passed, as the girl just stared at him, her face not moving an inch from the malignant grin she sported before he spoke. Then, she burst into laughter. "Ooh, that's good, ol' pal ol'friend o'mine," she laughed, bending and hitting her little knee with her hand, before once more rising to her full, if petite, height, and letting all the mirth fade away from her face.

"Now, kneel." And his body obeyed, without doubt, his right knee giving out even as he kept his sword pointed straight at her. His eyes widened, and his beard- he had a beard?!- itched in surprise, as her words finally registered. "How-" he started, but she interrupted him, "You don't have permission to talk, bastard," and she began calmly closing the distance between them.

His mind ran faster and faster, as he found himself unable to speak. He found he could freely scream, which amused the girl for some reason, and his throat could sing, but he could not give voice to words. As she came upon him, her diminutive size making it so she was still looking up into his eyes, she frowned, and her hand reached to twist his nose, making it crack as the bone broke, as she flatly went on, "You drank of my blood, consuming Fae food, without invitation, violating my body and attempting on my life, without even presenting yourself!"

He made a confused noise, but she ignored him. "For this, you shall pay." She moved from his distorted, but swiftly healing nose, onto his cheeks, pinching them like a grandmother would, but trying and failing to tear the skin. "I consulted a few of my friends, and they said I can basically do anything I want to you, so long as I-"

He stopped listening to the blubbering kidnapper, as she was clearly spouting nonsense. Him, drinking of her blood? Why, he'd never! They hadn't even gone to dinner first! He wasn't a womanizer, and he certainly would never force himself on another so violently! And then, an idea stuck into his mind.

In a bout of movement, the girl had also shut up, and mirrored his pose, kneeling in front of him, her hands holding a phantom sword. He could control her through his blood, in a semi-thralldom. Curious. Given she still gazed balefully at him, it didn't have full hold of her soul. Yet, she knelt, as he was doing, still unable to talk. Then, she nodded her head, her lips miming something in a tongue foreign to his own, in which it'd have been 'Go impale yourself with that fancy stick of yours, and don't scream', or something akin to it.

Yet, he found the tip of his own sword racing towards his heart, but sliding off his armor, instead moving on towards the child standing before him. he made a snap decision, and his gauntleted clacked as the weapon stuck to the ground, just beside the little lady.

She, for her part, went from gleeful giddiness to sudden fear, to open confusion, as her eyes met his own and didn't find any malice. She shook her head twice, and he found his knee free to move, and his mouth free to talk, and as he rose to his feet, he saw the girl doing the same, if looking terribly annoyed.

"What is thine purpose in taking me from mine crypt-" he began asking, looking to understand his situation, before she cut him off screaming, "How are you doing this! Where did you come from! What are you!" and more silly questions. Silly they may be, but it made it obvious she didn't have a clue as to his circumstances, and he didn't have a clue to her own.

Why did such things only happen to him? He never heard master talking about such embarrassing episodes. And he never was a morning person besides. Arguing with sassy children so early in the century was clearly not good for his health.