Set upon a wooden mannequin, an old yet pristine set of armour. He couldn’t understand how he didn’t see this before. He could swear there was a wall looking back at the women, and Sara was a gasp in shock.

“He vanished; he walked right through the wall.” One of them said.

Sara began inspecting, her gaze turning up and down. She seemed to not see Alek, as if he truly vanished. He had an inkling of what was going on. Memories had been rushing back, and he was well aware of magic. In fact, he had seen his companions perform such feats.

Ignoring for a moment, he just vanished from their sights. He inspected the armour. It was dark blood red, full plate and covered every limb. The patterns weaved into the metal, reminded him of blood vessels. To the left, placed on a weapon rack, was an ornate broadsword.

The blade was an unfamiliar metal, not steel. It felt far denser and was pitch black. The cross guard was equally unfamiliar, jewels encrusted it and it depicted a man, pinned to a cross, with a crown of thorns. Rather a morbid depiction, but then again, it was a weapon of war.

He would have liked to claim the weapon and armour. But it was too gaudy for a regular old bandit. So, he left the hidden room and emerging from solid stone, at least from the women's perspective. He surveyed their reactions.

“How did you do that?” Sara inquired, her initial disdain replaced by genuine curiosity.

“I have no clue.” He answered before making his way to the exit.

“I’m coming with you.” She declared.

“Fine.”

Agreeing easily and without a fuss, the pair left the secret room. Closing it behind them, they made their way out of the dungeon. Before leaving, Alek moved the two corpses out of the cell and stashed them elsewhere.

“So, what is your plan here, exactly?” The phantom asked, rather sarcastically.

Alek ignored the creature, keeping to the task. Sara broke his focus when she asked nearly the same question. This stopped the vampire in his tracks. He could see the phantom nodding to Sara. He then checked out her rear, giving a thumbs up. Alek wondered how that was possible, if the phantom was in his head.

“To drink everyone under the table.” With that declaration, he ascended the stairs.

The pair reached the courtyard, glancing from side to side. They could only see a few sentries. Turning to Sara, he explained the rest of his plan. It was relatively simple. She agreed to it easily enough. They switched into their roles, both uncomfortable, yet ultimately accepting the necessity.

Locking arms, Alek began stumbling as if inebriated. The two chatting like a couple, instead of sweet nothings. Sara would whisper all the ways she would attempt to kill him once they escaped this hellhole.

The vampire pretended as if the words were soothing and salacious. Making their way through the courtyard, waving to the few sentries. They arrived at a large wooden door, giggling as they entered the grand hall. What greeted them was a spacious room, fit for a lord and perhaps a king. Alek was not aware of who owned this castle, his memories didn’t cover it.

Scanning the room, he could spot several familiar faces. They were all seated at dining tables, spaced equally in the hall. They were rough looking customers, completely at odds with the regal atmosphere. Three steps led to a raised dais at the end of the room. Atop was a single ornate throne, a familiar figure seated upon it.

He was even more at odds with not only the castle's architecture, but the sea of bandits. Wearing a familiar red robe, it reminded him of the man he killed back in Helgos. The robed figure who awoke him from slumber, then tore his throat out. Not one of his finer moments, he thought.

Someone altered the robe, weaving a sword image into the fire insignia on the front. Using his vampire senses, he could perceive the mistakes in the design. A lesser artist likely added after it. The man appeared like a cross between a barbaric bandit lord and a priest. Square jawed, bristling with thick beard and sharp hazel eyes, scanned the room. He was leaning in frame, not the typical bulky fellows dotting the hall.

Next to the bandit lord was no doubt a wizard. Covered in far more pristine arcane robes, he appeared to be gaunt. Middle age, wielding a wooden staff. The wizard was whispering in the ear of the bandit lord, like a vizier to a sovereign. Seeing his moment, Alek quickly adopted every facet of his old identity. In a moment, he tried to conform himself to a dead man.

“Greetings lads, I'm back from the dead. Why don’t we celebrate!” He announced to the hall.

Every face turned to him, curious at the introduction. A few faces showed irritation, some people were obviously drunk, and others narrowed their eyes. Eventually, the assembled mass realised who had entered. Everyone cheered in unison, all bellowing the name he once possessed.

“I say I can out-drink the lot of you. Who would deny my claim?!” Alek further stated.

Several hands rose, as expected. Drinking copious amounts of alcohol and seeing who was the last to drop was a game many played. The man on the throne paid little attention, allowing the festivities to silence.

Men crowded Alek, some with their own women, attached at the hip. Alek could spy many false smiles, hiding genuine fear. Sadly, some people eventually gave in, intimidated by obedience. Trying to ignore the unspoken cries of help, he continued with the plan. Meeting once more, a few faces he recognised, most were barbaric killers like he was. Some, however, had oddly less brutal memories.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The youngest, seated on his own near the back of the hall. He was an orphan, taken into the gang only a few years ago. He had been the kindest of this motley lot. Rarely did he partake in raids, mostly focusing on logistics. His name was Alric, from what Alek could recall. The men were jovial with his announcement. They dragged in barrels of ale and ushered him to the centre table.

“Thomas, my lad, we thought you were dead. Tell us, how did the hunt go?” A large burly man inquired.

His name was Bjorgan, a northern barbarian from one of the nomadic tribes that plagued the steppes. I remember they exiled him for cutting up someone's daughter. A rival tribe's daughter, to avoid a conflict and to keep honour. The tribe exiled Bjorgan.

Bjorgan arrived with his cohorts, the two bulky med shadowing him. Durask and Sven were their names. They were both imperials, with decent bounties on their heads. The local lord hadn't bought them because they were exceptionally skilled with knives. Bjorgan liked that about them, since he was not very shy about his own sharp predilections.

These three were the most dangerous figures here, minus their leader and the creepy wizard. Fortunately, they were good friends with Alek’s former self. So instead of the typical predatory gaze they gave victims. They embraced Alek like a brother, commenting on how cold he was. Of course, Sven tried to get handsy with Sara. She promptly kicked him in the balls. This inspired laughter from his fellow men.

Alek had to intervene fewer future reprisals befallen the young woman. But he found neither came. Bjorgan didn’t dare lay a hand on her. Alek found this curious, however a few more memories told him why. Bjorgan and Sven once took a woman Thomas had claimed. In response, Thomas beat the pair half to death. Ever since then, Bjorgan avoided such actions and Sven was too dumb not to think about his dick.

Seated at the table, the drinking began in earnest. Alek had already knocked back three pints, and showed no intention of slowing down. Consuming any liquid that was not blood held no sustenance. He figured that out relatively quickly. Though he wondered where it all went, perhaps it was stuck in his stomach. He hopes he had some sort of magic digestion, since he had planned to imbibe a lot.

His first challengers dropped; they were fresh. The others cheered and mocked as one puked his guts out and the other ungracefully vacated. The situation was surprisingly jovial, and, he could admit, fun. Despite his own perspective on events, now coloured by a new clarity. He could not deny the comradery he felt with his old crew.

Despite the predatory nature buried within, there was also another more human desire. The desire to belong and despite the brutality of this crew. They had accepted the man he once was. Unfortunately, he was no longer that man. He was no longer a man at all. He is Nosferatu, the vampire child of his glorious sire. With his Creator's will, he would see his desires be done. Still, he would do them his way and try to be the better man. The thought filled him with a sense of duty. Hopefully, his father would be proud.

“Your cow towing to a kid. You are pathetic.” The phantom spat bitterly.

Alek ignored him, as he always does, turning his attention to his next contenders. They were on to their fifth mug of ale, and questions were flying.

“How did that job go? We heard you were tracking down some bounty?” One bandit asked.

“That is a bit of a story, requiring more ale!” He raised his mug and a loud cheer resounded.

The booze flowed freely as he regaled them with his altered tale. Every victory he made up elicited his fellow drunkards to chug. He did that purposely, trying to get everyone in proximity hammered. The story went on for over an hour. He embellished most of it and made up the rest. The more he spoke, the more comfortable he became with the act.

Sara was playing her part well, hanging onto his side. Pretending to be the girl, he recalled. Some women leaned into their sexuality to secure their safety. It was an apt strategy if you didn’t get any of the rougher members of the crew. Alek could sense Sara’s apprehension, and he couldn't blame her. Clinging to her parents' murderer was likely very difficult. Still, she let none of it show, playing the act well.

After a lengthy story, two songs and one drinking game. He had got most of his crew hammered. They were now slow and half of them all but passed out. It was the proper time; the only concern was their leader. He had yet to partake, nor his wizard. Alek had tried to entice the man, but he seemed content on his throne.

The night slowly winded down, soon an issue arose. Three of his old crew expressed a desire to descend to the dungeon. Their intentions were obvious, and they had yet to pass out. Alek rose from his seat, feigning a stumble. He signalled Sara to stay put, directing his gaze to the three leaving. She nodded before shifting her attention to another man. She began flirting with him, plying him with booze.

Alek left the hall, following close behind them. The trio stumbled their way's part the sentries and descended. One of them was lagging. He was the first target. Alek slowly but surely snuck his way to the man's back. Before he could even lay his hands on the man. Alek’s stomach made a loud, sloshing sound.

This alerted the man, turning around to meet a monster. He bared his fangs and his eyes glowed blood red. He hadn't learned how to control that. The man’s face was aghast in horror; however, Alek didn’t waste a second. His claws extended, reaching out and cutting the man's throat. It was messy and not at all what he had intended. The fact made the act easier. He had no memory of the man.

The other two, however, were a different story. One of them was a friend while the other was a sadist. He dispatched the sadist first, moving swiftly and snapping the man's neck. Stemford, a Tarkonian, was the other one, and he was as brutal as they came. He was not as drunk, drew a dagger and stabbed Alek.

The lack of hesitation has mildly hurt him. Yet he had no moral high ground to stand on. Stemford had a flaw in his combat tactics. He liked to look a man in the eyes as they die. Alek was no exception. Stemford gazed up, expecting a dying man. Instead, the last thing he saw was fangs. With the three dispatched, he hid their bodies with the others. He had noticed the bodies were piling up. So much for the peaceful route.

Turning around, his eyes widened in shock. His former leader, Sara, clinging to the man's arm, the wizard and four men appeared. He remembered everything. He was formerly a vampire hunter, an exile from the Order of Pyrus. The chain hanging from his shoulder, attached to a heavily runed jar. Within is a bright flame, struggling against its prison.

“I think you have some explaining to do, Thomas. When did you become cursed by the Upire?” He asked softly, feigning compassion.

Alek didn’t answer. His gaze flickered between everybody. Sara just smiled, hugging Elis tightly. It seemed she had betrayed him. He would have liked to blame her, but he killed her parents. The wizard just glared at the vampire with fascination.

Ignoring the question, Alek glanced around for an exit. He knew even with his speed, he couldn’t take out this many. With the magic arrayed against him, he didn’t want to put his supposed immortality to the test. Before he could speed away, his ears caught the wizard whispering under his breath.

“Chains of the netherworld, bind thy foe.” The wizard muttered.

Iron chains emerged from the walls, sped through the air, binding Alek in place. Elis approached, his face draped in a warm smile. His eyes instead told the tale of cruelty and malice.

“A new beast to burn, how wonderful the darkness is, to present such a challenge.” He said ominously.