- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
A darkness as thick as the ink of forgotten tomes clings to the attic, stretching endlessly into an obscured horizon. The air hangs heavy, and the chill bites with a fierceness that speaks of ages untouched by warmth. Shadows twist and coil, the only movement in a space where time seems to hold its breath — the attic. Vampire Lord Inkume stands there, holding a dusty box in his arms. His eyes — as ruby red as blood — survey the space. The spidergirls have been busy, their gossamer threads crisscrossing the beams above, creating a canopy of silk that shimmers faintly in the dim glow of lanterns scattered like the missing stars from the night sky.
He is here to help, to bring a little order to the chaos that has taken root in the attic lately. With all the adventurers coming and going, things have gotten messy, and — given that the attic is an infinite void — even Fi-Fi can’t keep up with keeping it tidy. The spidergirls, with their spindly limbs and boundless enthusiasm, are eager for his attention as well. They chatter in soft, sibilant voices, their excitement palpable as they present him with their creations.
— The request for his help was just bait. It was a trap. In reality, they want to give him things and hiss at each other every time one of them takes his attention away from one of the others.
Inkume's lips twitch into a brief smile — fleeting — as they drape him in a cascade of spider-silk garments.
“These are just the right size, Master!” says one of them excitedly, holding up a pair of black silk briefs with both her chitinous hands next to her face. “I made them for you!”
“Those are too ugly for the Master!” shouts another one, shoving her away and holding up a pair of socks. “Now these socks? They’re perfect; you won’t find any better!” she explains, pointing at the little bat motif she wove into them before screaming as the other spidergirl bites her hand.
The air is cool, almost damp, the scent of old wood mingling with the tang of silk. The mannequins, scattered among the rafters and clothed in various stages of finery, stand as silent witnesses to the proceedings. Their blank eyes watch, unblinking, as the Vampire Lord is buried beneath layers of socks and underwear as they are thrown into the air as the spiders all start fighting amongst themselves.
Inkume shifts, trying to extricate himself from the silken avalanche. The spidergirls' possessiveness flares, their fingers weaving even more fabric around him. He sighs, a sound filled with both exasperation and affection. "I appreciate your gifts, truly," he says, his voice smooth as velvet as his head pokes out of a mound of hopefully unworn clothes. "But perhaps I have enough for now," he suggests as more of them descend with full hands, hovering above the fight.
One of the spidergirls blinks, her eyes wide with innocence. "But Lord Inkume, we made them especially for you!" she says, holding out a sweater.
“The Master would never wear that trash!” shouts one of them, snatching the sweater out of her hands and presenting her own to him instead. The fight escalates, others mixing in as well.
Inkume lifts his cloak, adding in a mound of silk clothes into his treasury since they’ve made an obscene amount and he doesn’t know what else to do. But they’ve lost track of him now. Venom and sharp legs fly through the air as they go crazy, fighting for his attention.
You have added a fine collection of [Spider Silk Clothing] to your castle’s treasury!
“I…” Inkume ducks as a pair of trousers flies over his head. “Keep up the great work, ladies. I’ll be back later,” says the Vampire Lord, and then quickly vanishes past a mirror through a line of mannequins who stand there like guardsmen.
One of them is crushed as a sack full of freshly woven socks lands on it from the darkness above.
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“I forgot how crazy this place gets sometimes,” sighs Inkume to himself. Azalea was trying to wrangle him into hanging out with her brother, which he really didn’t want to do. So he escaped to the attic, but that was a mistake.
As he descends the staircase, the noises of the attic fade, leaving behind only the echo of screaming and the soft rustle of silk. He peels a wayward scarf off of his shoulder, tucking it away.
Inkume walks past a mirror.
The air thickens with the heat of the forge as Inkume descends into the basement. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal resonates — a pulse that beats in time with the flickering flames that dance in their iron hearth. Each step down the cold stone stairs brings him closer to the source of the sounds — his anticipation mingling with the oppressive warmth that envelops him. A hollow armor marches past him, its halbard refitted with black metal and its gait clean and polished.
“Looking sharp,” says Inkume, nodding to it, and the armor salutes him on its way past. “Ah, wait.” The Vampire Lord wraps the silk scarf around its neck. “Perfect.”
He slaps it on its back and keeps going.
The hollow armor looks at itself, a raspy, breathless voice coming from a whisper inside of the empty metal shell. “I am… chosen…” it says to the world. Metal clanks as it rattles, standing up taller. “The living shall know me, and they shall call me by my true name,” proclaims the soldier. “— Death.”
Not stopping, Inkume points at it with two fingers as he walks backward toward the forge. “Love the positive energy. Keep up that attitude.”
[Hollow Armor] has attained {Champion} status
He shuts the door behind himself, just as an explosion of black magic releases from the monster’s enchanted armor. The barrier rattles on its hinges behind him.
Inkume sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
The forge is a chaotic marvel. Sparks leap like fireflies in the dim light, illuminating the broad shoulders of the troll hunched over a massive anvil. His hands move with surprising deftness for someone so large, working a blade that glistens with promise. The scent of charred metal and smoke fills Inkume’s nostrils, a reminder of the labor that brings forth beauty from the unyielding elements.
“You asked for me?” says Inkume.
“Lord Inkume!” the troll bellows, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floor. He seems oddly… welcoming. Inkume narrows his eyes as the troll straightens upright, revealing the elegant rapier that rests on the workbench — a black blade that seems to absorb the flickering light around it. “I’ve finished it! Just as ordered. A masterpiece, fit for a lord!”
Inkume approaches, his interest piqued by the craftsmanship. The sword is a thing of elegance, the hilt adorned with intricate designs that resemble vines curling around thorns. He reaches for the hilt, his fingers brushing against the cool metal, a thrill of power coursing through him.
“I didn’t order a sword,” mutters Inkume, shaking his head.
“Ah, but you would have,” explains the troll. “So I got ahead of you and took the liberty,” it says.
“...Huh…” says Inkume suspiciously. He grabs the sword, picking it up. It is quite the beautiful thing; he won’t deny it, but what is he going to do with this? Stab somebody? Does he have it in him to just stab someone? Not that it isn’t cool as all hell. Damn. “It's perfect,” he murmurs, appreciating the balance and weight in his hand.
But before he can express his gratitude, the troll’s eyes narrow, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Now, about payment…” He steps forward. “I’ve drawn up an extensive payment plan! You see, quality work requires quality compensation.” His grin widens, revealing slightly crooked teeth that glint ominously in the forge's light.
Inkume groans. “Of course,” he sighs. “A payment plan?” he repeats, incredulity lacing his tone. The troll nods enthusiastically, launching into a convoluted explanation filled with percentages and interest rates.
The Vampire Lord glances around the forge, searching for an escape. The heat feels stifling now, each word from the troll's mouth a weight pressing upon him. This is like when you go shopping and some stranger with a clipboard is trying to get you to sign a subscription for magazines you’ll never read.
With an abrupt movement, Inkume grips the rapier tightly, the cool metal grounding him. “I’ll just… take this and have my people get back to you,” he says, his voice steady yet hurried. “You did well; thank you. I’ll send some money your way!”
[Blackmetal Rapier]
A perfectly balanced, razor-sharp sword made out of a mysterious, dark metal of an unknown — but likely horrifying — origin. It is exceptionally deadly to any living thing. Weight: 0.9kg Value: 1250 Obols
Before the troll can respond, Inkume pivots, rushing toward the exit. The troll booms behind him. “You can’t just run away! We need to discuss your financing options! Depending on what tier of payment you sign to, you may gain additional perks!”
Ignoring the call, Inkume bursts through the door, propelling himself toward the dining room — oddly enough. The castle must have rerouted the hallway just now. The clamor of the forge fades behind him, replaced by the echo of his footsteps against the polished stone floors. The air cools as he enters the grand hallway, the flickering torches casting long shadows that dance along the walls.
He pauses for a moment in the dining room. Here, he can reclaim his composure. Everyone is so crazy today.
Is it the moonlight or something?
A heavy silence blankets the dining room, interrupted only by the occasional crackle of a flickering candle. The long table, polished to a sinister gleam, stretches before Inkume, laden with exquisite dishes that seem to shimmer under the warm glow. But it isn’t real food.
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These are living objects, pretending to be a meal to trick any adventures who walk by. Although Inkume isn’t rightly sure what exactly the monsters strategy is, considering their plan is to get eaten.
A group of ghosts huddles near the far wall, their translucent forms swirling with agitation. Their whispers rise into a frantic argument, voices overlapping in a ghostly symphony of discontent. The topic of their heated exchange is none other than Snatch — Inkume’s favorite spirit. There are many ghosts in the castle, but none have his favor more than she does.
“She’s always slinking around, thinking she’s better than us!” one ghost hisses, their faces contorting with indignation.
“I think the Master would like me better; I should be his assistant!” another adds, eyes flashing with spectral fire.
Inkume watches with a mix of annoyance. He steps further into the room, but the bickering intensifies, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. The ghosts, who are apparently jealous about Snatch being his favorite helper, are so busy fighting among themselves that they don’t even notice him. The air grows thick with their frustration, swirling around him as some dozen or so ghosts fly in a circle around each other, shoving and arguing about who should replace Snatch. Like the spidergirls in the attic, they start fighting and then get into a mess of a tumble.
Suddenly, their forms begin to blur, merging together in a wild display of ethereal chaos. Inkume blinks, taken aback as the spirits melt into one another, twisting and writhing until they form a gigantic amalgamation — a grotesque mass of many faces, limbs, and expressions. It looms before him, eyes wide and mouths gaping, a cacophony of moans and gasps spilling forth.
“Now look what you’ve done!” argues one of them, half sticking out of the ball of knotted and tangled ghosts.
“Me?!” shouts another one, its face half buried inside of the mess.
“Lord Inkume!” the collective wails, their tones a mournful blend as one of them suddenly sees him. “We were just discussing you!”
“I love you, Master!”
“Master! Kill them and run away with me!”
Dozens of hands reach out his way as the faces all blend together and melt, calling and speaking in so many different tongues.
“Take it easy, guys,” he replies, his voice steady yet laced with urgency. The amalgam of spirits shifts toward him, the myriad eyes focusing intently, a hunger for his attention burning within their depths. Their form swells, reaching for him, and Inkume realizes he must escape. He turns on his heel, the polished stone floor slick beneath his boots. He races toward the door, the ghostly mass trailing behind him, their collective wails echoing through the grand space.
“Wait, Master! Let me sniff your hair!” The amalgamation cries, its voice layered and dissonant, a chorus of desperate spirits.
“I love him more!” shouts a ghost. "Get away!"
“What?! As if!” starts one of them, and before he knows it, the mess of them is fighting amongst themselves once more.
He heads out of a side door, closing it tightly shut.
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Inkume, his head buzzing, walks through the archway and rushes into the cool embrace of the castle gardens. The night air is crisp, a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat of the dining room. Moonlight spills across the manicured hedges and vibrant flowers, casting an otherworldly glow upon the scene.
The Blackflower Gardens whisper with the gentle rustle of leaves, a serene lullaby in the midst of chaos. The moon casts a silvery glow over the sprawling flora, painting the night with shadows that seem to breathe.
Inkume turns around. “Hey, I’m coming over,” warns the Vampire Lord, walking backward her way and then sitting down. She doesn’t like being looked at, after all.
He steps over a half-buried, broken mirror.
There’s a soft rustling as she emerges from her flower. He sighs in relief, hitting the grass as he sits down with his back to her. “Sorry. Hope you don’t mind,” says the Vampire Lord. “Just needed a second of quiet, and I know I can count on you.”
Behind him comes the sound of petals and foliage, together with a nervously quiet laugh. She sits quietly, her fingers weaving stems and petals, her gaze never quite meeting his. The garden feels alive but peaceful, the scent of blossoms mingling with the crispness of the night as distant magical explosions light up the darkness. Inkume watches the world. At night, the adventurers like to either be inside the castle or back out in the adventurers’ guild. But the gardens and forest area are unpopular zones to be in when it’s dark.
The castle windows flash here and there as battles go on in the many corridors and hallways. A suspended bridge breaks in half, screaming people flying out of it as an explosion tears it apart. They fall to their deaths.
He sighs.
“M…Master,” says a voice from behind him. Inkume knows better than to turn his head. She reaches over his shoulder, a pale green hand hesitantly offering a woven bracelet to him made from fibres and flower roots, her movements gentle and deliberate. “For you.”
Inkume looks at it. “Aw, thank you,” he says, carefully taking it from her.
[Petalwoven Bracelet]
A delicate bracelet, made by a gentle touch and with great care. It has latent magical properties. Weight: 0.1kg Value: 02 Obols
He accepts it with a nod, slipping it onto his wrist where it fits perfectly.
Unfortunately, his fingers accidentally graze hers for the slightest flash of a second.
Her eyes widen, and a flush of vibrant color spreads across her cheeks. She trembles, overwhelmed by even a single touch — a storm brewing within her that shifts the air around them. The leaves on her form begin to flutter, and her breathing quickens.
“No, no, no,” says Inkume quickly. “Deep breaths! Deep breaths,” encourages the Vampire Lord, feeling the ground around him start to quake as roots begin to shift and churn.
Inkume stands, sensing the shift from tranquility to chaos. “It’s really very beautiful!” he adds, hoping to soothe her as he puts on the bracelet, but she only grows more flustered. The albrūn’s vines whip through the air, tearing the soil apart in an instant.
Overwhelmed by even a single instant’s touch, she screams, her voice rising into a panicked crescendo.
Inkume steps back. He turns swiftly and bolts, turning into a cat to dive through the whipping roots and vines.
Her horrified cries fade into the distance as he makes his escape.
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Talk about luxurious problems.
Inkume looks at the collection of gifts he’s been given tonight — the silk garments, the sword, the bracelet. In his old life, he was never given gifts like this before. These are all precious things, and he’s deeply grateful. But damn if he doesn’t just want to sit somewhere for five minutes and not have anything happen.
So he ventures into the dark forest beyond the castle. The atmosphere shifts again, the air cooler and brimming with the scent of pine and moss. The shadows deepen, and the night sky peeks through the canopy in fractured shards of light.
Inkume looks around himself, not sure where he is.
This part of the forest looks different.
He finds a single unusual tree in a grove — an anomaly in the otherwise thickly wooded gloom. Its bark gleams with a soft radiance, untouched by time or decay that sets it apart from the rest of the forest. Confused, the Vampire Lord looks at it. Beneath its roots lies an old, small shrine. “Here lies…” he squints his eyes, wiping off the stone. “The body of a hero?” he guesses. “Oh, shit,” mutters Inkume, looking around the area. This looks like a grave. A hero? Is this where someone from that old hero party is buried?
Fuck.
First the statue guy in the clocktower, and now this. He doesn’t like where this is going.
“Snatch!” calls Inkume.
“Yes, Master. Can I hold you, Master?”
He looks at her. “Steal the bones from this grave and put them somewhere where nobody can ever find them,” he instructs, pointing at a small shrine by the glowing tree. “The last thing I need is for some upstart to… I dunno, resurrect a hero or something.”
The wheezing, drippy ghost looks at him and then at the grave for a member of the thousand-year-old hero party. “Oh! The priestess,” says Snatch, rasping for breath as she looks at the adventurers’ grave, her hands touching her face as she recognizes something about it. “She was… kind and pretty…” notes the ghost, almost disgusted and angry about this as she breathes noisily. “Damn her.”
Snatch dives into the soil. A second later, there’s a muffled scream from down below it as she plunders the grave and snatches the bones back into the castle.
The tree rustles, its leaves shaking as the ground below it is disturbed as Snatch seems to steal an entire segment of dirt. The little shrine topples over the personal affects near it — overgrown and covered in grime — fall to the ground.
Something glints there and catches his eye.
Inkume bends over, looking at it.
Inside the mirror is a reflection — not his, obviously. But that of someone else’. “Oh, right,” says the Vampire Lord, looking through the mirror glass. It must be affected by the castle’s magic. Inside the mirror is the knight who came with Azalea’s brother. She’s been in there for a while, and she looks pretty tuckered out at this point.
It seems cruel to let this go on any longer.
Inkume grabs the old hand mirror by its handle and flips it over, shaking it out like he were trying to get the water out of a cup. A second later, a far too large, shifting form slips out through the small glass opening. A full suit of battered, dented, and worn metal plate armor clatters to the forest soil at his feet. It’s smeared in some sort of green grease that he can’t identify. The knight, having been trapped for two nights now, lies there for only a flash of a second as she reorientates.
And then, without warning, she moves. Moonlight catches the glint of a silvered blade that cuts along his sleeve and arm as she immediately strikes — exhausted or not. Steel boots and strong legs launch her off the ground.
— But Inkume ducks past her.
“It’s over. Go,” says the Vampire Lord, standing at her side as she pants for breath. A sizzling comes from his arm.
The knight turns her helmet, looking at him. “I’ve been watching you,” she says. “Through the mirrors.”
“Not during any intimate moments, I hope,” replies the Vampire Lord, as his magic weaves his arm and shirt back shut.
She turns, the sword swinging sluggishly his way. He avoids it without even trying. She’s spent, after all. “What kind of sick magic do you have?” asks the stranger, looking at him. “The monsters, people, the ghosts… for them all to be so… so…” She looks down at her other, shaking hand. “— Affectionate.” She lunges. He ducks out of the way, simply sidestepping her as she falls against the tree, panting for breath. But the body of a mortal can only go for so long, and she’s been going for a while now already. “Mind control? Some kind of… corrupting aura?”
She’s a church knight. Everything he can see from her trim, and judging from what Azalea told him, seems to align. The holy church is a powerful organisation in this world that is responsible for training priests and all the holy people of the world. Given their charitable work in healing and medicine, their political reach and support go far and wide. They are, by the standards of a vampire, the most powerful enemy there is.
The Vampire Lord points at her. "As an employer, I offer extremely competitive benefits packages and a healthy work-unlife balance," he jokes, hoping to get her to take it easy.
If he’s afraid of a few heroes coming his way, he’s really going to not like what the world will look like if a divine crusade is called out on him. Right now, the adventurers attacking his castle mostly lack holy magic, which is great for him. Because those few who do have it here are absolute powerhouses that blast their way through his defenses. He can’t allow more of them to arrive. If word gets out of what this place is and of how strong he’s becoming, Inkume knows that he’ll attract the wrong kind of attention. His black rapier dangles on his hip.
“Do what you will, demon!” commands the knight, her voice staying strong despite her deep exhaustion. “But death will only set me free.”
With her last power, she swings the sword overhead down toward him. The Vampire Lord doesn’t budge, simply lifting a hand. The silver blade, held by a shaking, tired arm, goes no further than the gap between his thumb and index finger as he catches it. The skin of his digits hiss as the silver scalds him.
He can’t let her get away, for the safety of everyone here.
With his left hand, the Vampire Lord throws her arm to the side, lunging forward against the knight as the sword flies out of her hand, arching through the treeline. That hand lands below her shoulder, and his other palm grabs her matching wrist, pulling it outward tautly as a hiss fills the air, followed by a scream that fills the night. Nightbirds fly out from the trees, together with startled dark-fairies who scatter at the sound of the sudden cry.
His shirt presses over a smeared metal breastplate, and his pulling on her arm leans her over sideways somewhat as his teeth sink straight through the sheet of metal as if it were nothing. The vampire’s fangs press in through the layer of garments below that and then push in deeper past the barrier of her skin.
Tension runs down her outstretched arm in a jolt, her fingers clasping and spasming in the same second as the arm his hand is below pulls in, a tight, metal fist striking his side. The knight, shaking in her armor, hits him again, but the force needed to give impact behind the blow has left already through the volume of her voice. She hits him again, weaker, as he drinks, but now her hand unfurls and stays alongside his back and falls over, the weight of her armor finally too heavy. He lands on top of her, his face at her side as he pins her wrist, the other free to hold onto him.
The helmet, pushed off from the inside, slides off of her confused face and then keeps sliding further away as two long rabbit ears — compressed and folded flat below the metal — stiffen as they’re filled with blood and then push it free. A string of spit, rubbed from her mouth, sticks between her lips and the metal for a moment as it rolls off to the side. Her large, red eyes — red not because she’s evil but because she’s part rabbit — roll back and up as she arches together.
The reflecting glint of the moonlight, catching off of the silver sword that is stuck in the trunk of a tree, washes over the two shapes on the forest floor as he lets go of her wrist only for her her arms and legs to wrap around him.
The villagers nearby run in terror, thinking that a wolf is on its way, as they hear the noise that fills the night.