- [The Banshee’s Blood, Adventurers’ Guild] -
The atmosphere is tense yet vibrant, like a simmering pot filled with soup of many colors on the verge of boiling over. The Banshee's Blood teems with adventurers — a chaotic blend of clinking mugs and murmured conspiracies. Candlelight flickers, casting shadows that dance over worn wooden beams and the scattered trophies of bygone quests in the castle. Beneath the din, a low hum of conversation rumbles through the room, regarding both the excitement and dread that the Vampire Lord's castle inspires. In one corner, a group huddles around a battered table, its surface etched with tales of past adventures from these last few weeks.
Their faces — gaunt, eyes haunted — speak of nights filled with terrors that the daylight cannot banish. They lean in, sharing quiet words and the occasional nervous laugh, trying to stitch themselves back together with camaraderie and ale. The air is heavy with their whispers, each confession a thread in the tapestry of shared horror.
“I died my fifth death now,” mutters a man, his shaking eyes filled with blood that isn’t there anymore before he quiets them with his drink.
The room is alive, buzzing with energy, yet outside, the night presses against the windows, cold and unyielding. An autumn chill seeps through the cracks, mingling with the warmth of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The smell of roasting meat and stale ale hangs in the air, a comforting balm against the encroaching darkness beyond for some, but for others an almost nauseating scent that their minds have begun to associate with horrific memories of mutilation and death.
A woman with a scar running across her cheek taps her mug against the table. "Another round?" she asks, her voice carrying over the chatter. Her companions nod, eyes momentarily brightened by the promise of distraction. “I got torn in half three days ago,” she says, lifting a hand to gesture to the barkeeper for more drinks. “Haven’t had the courage to go back since,” she explains, her hand dropping to her still half-full tankard that her eyes lose themselves into. “...But I need more money before I can go back home.”
Nearby, a bard strums a melancholy tune on a lute, fingers moving with practiced ease. His notes weave through the conversations, a background melody to the stories being spun. The music swells and fades.
Most people are still having a great time, plundering and earning their hearts full of riches. But some of them are reaching their breaking point. One might be functionally immortal inside of the castle, but the memory of their multiple deaths sticks with them. Some of the adventurers are more resilient than others in this matter, but some of them are starting to crack around the edges.
A man with eyes that flicker like the candle flames shifts in his seat, rubbing his temples. "Damn castle," he mutters, voice hoarse. "Should've known better than to go back," he says. “Can’t sleep anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see those yellow eyes baring down on me from the shadows…” he says before taking a long drink.
His words hang in the air, drawing nods from those around him who have similar night terrors. They've felt the bite of the Vampire Lord's minions, the relentless traps, each resurrection a blessing, as life is never returned to anyone who dies anywhere else in the world and a curse because the sensation of having your neck ripped off of your back is a deeply visceral feeling that you can’t really forget when you wake up an hour later in a damp grave outside of the guild.
Some have a few scars to show for it; others carry these wounds in places deeper and less visible.
Each adventurer is here for their own reason — fame, fortune, redemption. But tonight, these few battered souls gather to find solace in the company of those who understand.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting a flickering glow that paints the room in shades of gold and shadow. Outside, the wind howls, a mournful dirge that echoes through the night. The adventurers drink and talk, voices mingling with the music, creating a tapestry of sound that drowns out the silence waiting beyond the guild's walls.
“More drinks,” says the hooded, shady barkeeper, Miss Schwester, setting down a collection of frothing mugs onto the table. “…To help forget your troubles…” she deviously cackles, the tips of her bony, pale fingers pressing together as she then slowly almost seems to glide away backward toward the bar without ever turning her back to them.
“What a nice lady,” says a man at the table. “— Too good for this place.”
“We love you, Miss Schwester!” calls a drunk across the room, as the barkeeper almost seems to manifest behind the counter again in a spare second where nobody was looking her way — as if she had vanished and reappeared.
“…Soon…” says Miss Schwester ominously to herself, holding the tips of her rising and falling fingertips together just below her obscured eyes that stare out blankly into the room, devoid of life and emotion.
People nearby laugh, having fun at a table that is in a much better mood than those in the trauma corner of the guild.
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- [The Vampire Lord’s Castle, A Secluded Tower] -
Cold stone walls stretch upward, enclosing the forgotten cries of adventurers trapped within the high tower.
The air is thick with the smell of dampness and desperation; each cold breath is a reminder of the isolation that clutches at their spirits. Flickering torchlight casts wavering illusions that slip across the stone floor like crushed ghosts, the flames sputtering against the chill that seeps through the cracks.
Outside, the night brews, the wind howling through the narrow windows and driving a chill against the ancient stones.
In the dim light of the prison cell, a group of adventurers sit huddled together, their faces a patchwork of exhaustion. Each one bears the marks of recent battles — scrapes, bruises, and the occasional haunted look that suggests a brush with death. They're here not by choice but by cruel design, a punishment for those who dared to breach the Vampire Lord's lair and failed. They talk in whispers, voices barely carrying above the distant rumble of thunder.
This has never happened before. They usually always get sent to the guild, but for some reason a few of them have woken up here instead.
[Prison Tower]
{Intruder Detention Zone} The prison tower of the Vampire Lord’s castle. High up upon the perilous cliffs and secluded in the mountains behind the castle, the prisoners of the dark master are kept here until their moment of purpose arrives.
Room Effect: In order to stop an overpopulation from filling the adventurers’ guild, one of every five defeated adventurers is imprisoned here for a period of {72} hours. After which point, they are released back into the general population as if they had respawned naturally.
• All prisoner equipment has been removed, barring essentials, and stored within the castle’s [Treasury]. If desired, adventurers can raid the tower to free their captured party members early and then retrieve their secured treasure and loot, allowing potential continuity between failed runs.
• [Hollow Armor]s Upgraded → [Hollow Guardsman]
The room is active! No monsters are currently spawning here.
A lanky man with a scruffy beard leans back against the wall, eyes closed. "This is the last time I listen to that damn bard," he mutters, his words tinged with irritation. "He said it was an easy score. Just turn the cog to lift up a treasure chest. Like hell," he says, tapping the side of his face. “It was some kind of poison trap. Filled up the whole room.”
A woman with fiery hair — her cloak tattered, but her spirit unbroken — snorts in response. "An ‘easy score’? Nothing’s been ‘easy’ here since the first few days,” she mutters. “Damn castle is getting stronger every night. We can’t even get past the gardens sometimes anymore.” She looks around herself at the others. “There’s this damn hollow armor wearing a scarf for some reason. It absolutely trashed us before we even got to the door.”
Their words echo in the small space, a shared commiseration that temporarily lifts the weight of their predicament. Each of them knows the stakes — three days of confinement unless rescued by daring comrades. The thought is both comforting and terrifying. On one hand, breaking out means a chance to get their items back and then maybe escape with a profit, which is very tempting given the amount of money at stake for some of them. But on the other hand, it could mean running around a maze of corridors filled with monsters for half an hour before being impaled, burnt alive, or cut in half.
— At least here in the tower, it’s quiet. That’s something.
Around them, the stone walls sometimes seem to listen in on their conversations, the bricks moving in odd manners now and then as the castle readjusts itself. There is a heavy presence that presses down on the soul in the air, a vibe. But that might just be an appropriate thing to feel when you’re the Vampire Lord’s prisoner. The temperature is cold enough to bite, the dampness creeping into bones and smothering warmth. Each of them has a blanket and their base clothes left to them to save their dignity at least. A fire burns outside of the cell, too far to touch but close enough to feel the heat from. The group of them rest with their backs against the bars to get as much of the heat as possible.
The damn castle is always ice cold.
Another adventurer — a young woman with eyes that gleam like embers — stares out into the darkness beyond the window. "You think they'll come for us?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
The man opens his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. "They better," he replies, a hint of determination threading through his exhaustion. "I found a sword valuable enough to be my retirement. I want it back,” he explains, turning his head over his shoulder. “Otherwise, we'll just have to find our own way out."
Silence stretches between them, punctuated by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling.
“Eh,” says a wizard, tipping the brim of his hat over his eyes as he crosses his arms and leans back. “Leave me out of it. I’m going to do my time,” he says, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his chest. “My party hasn’t let me have a good night’s rest since we got here.” He yawns loudly, settling in for what seems to be the world’s most desired nap, despite their horrific and grim surroundings.
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- [The Wine Cellar Below the Vampire Lord’s Castle] -
The air is cool and damp, curling around the stone arches and whispering through the dimly lit corridors. In the basement wine cellar of the Vampire Lord's castle, barrels and bottles rest in silent rows, their dark contents gleaming under the flicker of scattered lanterns. The scent of aged oak and iron fills the space, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the blood stored within. A group of lesser vampires, strangers to the castle's ever-shifting halls, have wandered into this subterranean retreat. Their journey through the labyrinthine corridors — marked by confusion and frustration — has now ultimately led them here, where the promise of servitude to the Vampire Lord has temporarily been forgotten.
Now, they revel in their unexpected discovery, eyes wide with hunger and delight.
“No way,” says one of them with a high-pitched voice, her eyes magnified by the dark glass of a wine bottle she peers through. It is full of blood. She tilts her head sideways, reading the label. “It’s blood!” she notes excitedly, looking at the others. “From people!” Excited, she grabs the bottle, immediately gnawing at the cork with her teeth like a feral creature. “It’s been so long since I drank something that didn’t have four legs,” she bemoans in a muffled voice, the glass nozzle and cork in her mouth.
One of them — a tall, wiry figure with a grin — reaches for a bottle, holding it up to the light. The crimson liquid inside swirls, rich and alluring. "Well, looks like we've found ourselves a bit of a treat," he says, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
Another vampire, draped in a cloak that brushes the floor, pulls a cork free and takes a long draught. "To hell with finding the throne room," he declares, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "This is where the real party is." He lifts the bottle up into the air, the three of them striking them together as the cheer.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
— Although the first vampire has yet to manage to open hers, instead jumping and angling her head at an angle to strike the glass like a hound with a stick, rather than relinquishing it from her grip for even a second for this gesture.
She manages to bore a hole through her cork after a frustrated minute, though, and sips from the small hole as if it were a baby bottle.
They laugh, voices mingling with the clink of bottles and the gurgle of pouring drinks. The tension of their fruitless search melts away, replaced by the heady intoxication of indulgence. Each sip is a reminder of their darker nature, the liquid fire coursing through their veins and igniting a primal joy. Vampires are deadly creatures, after all. To become a lesser true vampire like they are now was a long, grueling process that involved countless years and countless bodies. They might resemble humans at this point of their development once more, but for the longest time they were nothing but debased, horrifying creatures of teeth, pale soggy skin, and bloodlust during the larval gestation process. Each of them has a trail of corpses in their wake longer than the cloak of the Vampire Lord himself.
— But the thought of becoming something like him is absurd. Even if they had access to this cellar for a century, they wouldn’t have killed and feasted enough to gather that level of world-ending power. Maybe if one of them killed the others first to secure as much blood for themselves as possible.
This thought seems to hit all three of them at the same time, as their eyes — filled with bloodsatiated joy a second ago — all narrow in synchronized distrust as they immediately look at one another.
Vampires don’t have friends. It’s not in their nature. To become what they are, they’ve forsaken everything that once gave them the token bequeathment of humanity. They’ll happily use and pact with others, but they can’t be trusted past the first hint of getting even more power than anyone else.
But each of them, all thinking the same thoughts, also thinks that they can’t let the others know that they’re plotting to get rid of them as soon as they get a chance. They all three, individually, plot to let the others get so blood drunk that they’re weakened and unexpecting.
— So they drink and make merry too, for now, in order to play along.
The stone walls of the cellar seem to absorb their fun, the cool air punctuated by their exuberance as they sing and dance and uncork one bottle after the other before moving onto the barrels.
Three hours later, they’re more blood than a monster, and the rush of its magical powers destroys any sense of logic in their minds.
Vampires are parasitic entities. Unable to produce magic of their own, they are required to tap it from others — who have an abundant natural production of it — through their blood. This causes a vampire, who is empty on reserves, to feel a rush of euphoria when they drink the ruby nectre, like a thirsty man finding his first sip of water in days. These feel-good endorphins can be overloaded though if a vampire drinks and drinks and drinks until they reach a point of bio-magical saturation that is very similar to inebriation.
They’re blood drunk.
A vampire with sharp features and a glint of mischief in his eyes raises his bottle high. "To… To the Vampire L-Looord~," he toasts, though his loyalty is tinged with irreverence. "May he never find us down here, and may his wine cellar always be stocked,” says the vampire, with one eye closed as he holds his guts down where they belong. He sways on his feet.
“I love you, Vampire Lord!” shouts the smaller one to the world, sitting on top of an overturned barrel with two bottles in her hands as the third vampire grabs a metal bar and pries the lid off, a stream of blood pouring out.
For now, the castle's maze is forgotten, the quest for servitude set aside.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
The air is thick with a lingering scent of spilled blood and fermented wine.
“What the…?” says Inkume, looking around himself.
“Intruders,” snarls a voice from next to him as a massive, shaggy snout presses itself past him, squeezing between his side and the wall of the stairwell — Bark. “Master. They’re not human,” she says, narrowing her massive eyes.
The cellar lies in disarray, a chaotic landscape of shattered bottles and slumbering bodies. The flickering torchlight casts erratic shadows over the scene, accentuating the disheveled state of the once-pristine chamber. Silence reigns, broken only by the occasional groan from one of the knocked-out vampires sprawled across the floor. Vampire Lord Inkume descends into the cellar, his presence unhurried. He pauses at the entrance, surveying the disorder with a mixture of disbelief and irritation as he picks up an empty bottle and looks it over. Only a single droplet falls down onto the floor. His eyes — dark and calculating — sweep over the slumbering figures, noting the evidence of their uninvited revelry.
Inkume moves forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The lesser vampires are oblivious to his arrival, lost in the stupor of their indulgence. He nudges one of them with the toe of his boot, eliciting a sleepy murmur but little else. "Vampires," he mutters, voice laced with annoyance.
He’s surprised that it took this long. But it looks like some ‘wild’ — for a lack of better terms — vampires have found him. He is the Vampire Lord, after all, so he was expecting that eventually. But he wasn’t expecting them to be such messy and rude guests. Even the adventurers don’t trash his castle this badly.
Bark pads silently beside him, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage. She huffs, a low growl rumbling in her throat, and glances up at Inkume, her eyes questioning. He meets her gaze, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It seems our new guests have made themselves quite comfortable," he remarks dryly, casting a bemused glance at the scene.
The temperature of the cellar is cool, a stark contrast to the heated mess before them. Inkume strides past the haphazard piles of unconscious vampires, his destination clear. He reaches for a remaining intact bottle, its contents shimmering crimson in the low light. Uncorking it with a practiced motion, he takes a measured sip, savoring the rich taste, and then sighs.
“At least there’s this one left,” he mutters. “Ooh. It’s still cold. Good vintage.”
Race: Fairy
Gender: Male
Age: 12
Class: Cryomancer
Adrenaline: Extreme
[Experience Points Gained] You have drank a large amount of blood from a small, wild fairy with a big dream! It’s magical properties are significant.
*★✧+- [LEVEL UP!] -+✧★* You are now level 277!
NEW ABILITY [The Thing that Whistles] Active Ability • Allows you to confuse and torment your frantic prey within any forest of the world by letting you perfectly mimic the call of any wild bird!
Nearby, one of the lesser vampires stirs, blinking blearily in the dim light. She sits up, confusion etched across her face as she, crawling halfway out of an emptied barrel like a tired snail coming out of its oozy house, takes in the imposing figure of the Vampire Lord. "Uh... we — uh — didn't mean to intrude," she stammers, scrambling to her feet but not getting far. She hits her head on the barrel and then falls over again onto her back, laughing. Her feet kick around inside of it, hitting the wood like a drum.
Inkume raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. "You have certainly made a mess of my cellar," he observes, gesturing to the chaos with a sweep of his hand. "I trust you've enjoyed yourselves."
The giddy vampire glances at her companions, still sprawled in various states of disarray, and nods sheepishly. "A bit too much, I guess," she admits, rubbing the back of her neck. She laughs, slapping the ground, and then, after a long moment, as if suddenly realising something, her eyes widen.
“My new Master Lord K-King!” says the young vampire excitedly, as if seeing him for the first time despite them talking for a minute now. She rises up to her feet. “I stopped them, but these… thieves tried to steal all of your precious bl-blo-” she starts stammering as she stands up in something akin to straightness as she points at the other two, slumped over like wet rags. Her face widens as her throat clenches together, her eyes and cheeks expanding before she quickly turns her head away, falling back over the barrel and audibly vomits on the other side of it.
“Charmed,” notes Inkume quietly, his hand grasping his face in exasperation.
Bark lets out a soft growl, her eyes twinkling with mirth, and nudges Inkume's hand with her nose. “Should I eat them?” she asks.
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “As if I would do that to you,” he says, almost offended, his hand held over his chest as he looks at the soggy intruders. "I bet they're pretty gross," he mutters.
— A new wet splashing comes from nearby as the retching continues.
He shakes the bottle in his hand toward her. “Come on. Forget 'em. I got what I came here for. Let’s go take that walk I promised you,” he says, waving her to follow him.
“Are you sure?” asks the giant wolf, who has no business being in these tight underground chambers. She somehow makes it work, prowling after him through the corridors at the cost of knocking absolutely everything over, especially given the violent wagging of her tail that smashes a vampire against a wall on the way out. “The old village is very far away. It will take us all night to get there and back.”
Inkume looks at her. “For you, I have that kind of time,” he says, causing the wolf goddess to recoil from his directness.
A second later, though, she shoves her head down below him and hoists him onto her back. “Hold on,” says Bark, as they squeeze out of a doorway into a larger opening. “I’ll get us there faster.”
“Oh?” he asks, surprised. “The prideful wolf-goddess is letting me get onto her?” asks the Vampire Lord. “That I would live to see the night.”
She looks back up at him over her shoulder. “We can trade places next time there’s no moon,” says the goddess, not skipping a beat.
— He walked right into that one.
Inkume quickly looks to the side, waving at a familiar skeleton to escape his new social awkwardness. “Fi-Fi,” calls the Vampire Lord. “You have three new maids in the cellar,” he says. “Get them to work cleaning up their mess,” he shouts as the massive wolf picks up speed and then leaps out of a tower window, bounding past a terrified group of adventurers as they hurtle toward the depths of the forest.
Fi-Fi clicks her heels together, saluting him like a soldier as the two of them depart.
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- [Fi-Fi, the Maid] -
A second later, Snatch appears.
“The Master!” pants the ghost frantically, looking around as she dribbles over the freshly mopped floors. “I heard the Master’s voice. Is he here?” she asks desperately. “Fi-Fi! Where is he?!” she snaps, grabbing the maid and then looking into the bucket of mop water, as if he were hiding in there. “I haven’t seen the Master in almost an hour! I’m going INSANE!” she screams.
“Lord Inkume just left to the forest with Bark,” says Fi-Fi, grabbing the ghost and lifting her into the air. “He won’t be back until tomorrow.” Snatch lets out a horrified scream. Fi-Fi winks to her. “Fi-Fi suggests you go after them before you lose your chance.”
Snatch howls like a demon, clutching and tearing at her own face. “Thanks Fi-Fi! I don’t hate you anymore!” yells the ghost, shooting off like a falling star as she blasts through a window and out into the night.
“...Nani?” mutters the skeleton.
A second later, Azalea appears. “Fi-Fi -” starts the elf.
“- Forest,” replies Fi-Fi, cutting her off and pointing to the window.
“Thanks, Fi-Fi!” calls the rabid priestess before running off.
The maid stands there in silence and then grabs her mop. But then, not a second later, someone else appears.
“Forest,” says the maid, not lifting her head as the knight Agnis quickly departs as silently as she came, and shadowing after her is the doll, which had belonged to the old master of the castle.
That’s just about all of them.
The witch Hwa-Young flies in on her broom, about to ask a question. Excitedly, she lifts a finger and then stops, simply freezing in place and staring blankly for a time.
She forgot her question.
A moment later, the witch grabs her chin and thinks about what she was doing before she floats off on her broom down a different direction.
Fi-Fi, watching them all leave, sighs in relief when the last of them is gone. She slings the wet mop back over her shoulder, droplets flying out behind her, before digging in her cart for a tiny parchment roll of herbs that she holds to a nearby torch and then sticks between her teeth, reminiscent of a cigarette.
It’s not that she can actually smoke, but it’s really more about the ritual of it all. She used to be a pretty heavy smoker back in her old-old life. It helped her keep the appetite away and stay rail thin so she didn’t get her contract cut by her producers.
“Baaaka~,” says the maid in a dull, smug tone to everyone in general, rolling her eyes as she walks down the staircase toward the cellar to drum up some new workers. Their arrival is perfectly timed because she needs some free time to finish her complot.
While everyone else is out wasting their time chasing after the Vampire Lord through some forest to try and win him over, she’s the only one playing this game of theirs at a serious level and not like an infatuated schoolgirl. Because while they’re scrambling like goslings after a mama duck, she’s going to be here, becoming his favorite because she knows what they don’t know.
— She knows that the Vampire Lord is just some guy.
He’s from her world. They’re both from the same place and at the same time, and unlike these creatures here who hold Master Inkume to be a living god with indescribable desires, she knows how men from that other world operate, and she knows the way to their hearts. He’s the Vampire Lord in body, but in his heart, he’s still that man — the same as she is still, in a way, the woman she always was.
Amateurs. They don’t stand a chance.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] - Many Hours Later, Sunrise
Yawning loudly after one hell of a night out in the woods, Inkume rubs his eyes and steps into his sarcophagus down into the crypt to hide away and rest before the daylight comes once again to torment him. It got pretty hectic out there outside of the castle with everyone there at each other’s throats, but he managed to keep them all alive and away from each other. Although Bark was most certainly not amused, having thought this would be a solo excursion for him and her.
He leans back, nestling into the soft padding of his coffin, and pulls the lid closed after himself, ready to get some well-earned rest.
A sheet of paper flutters into his nose, glued to the inside of the lid with some wax.
Tired and confused, the Vampire Lord looks at it, pulling it free from the wax that is sticking the single page to the stone interior in front of his face.
“...‘Do you like me?’” He reads out loud to himself from the note in a tired voice, his eyes scanning down to three separate answer checkboxes below the single written question. Next to it is drawn a stickman equivalent of what he thinks is meant to be a cute skeleton in a maid’s dress – Fi-Fi. “‘Yes. No… Maybe’?”
Not sure what to do with this just this second, the tired Vampire Lord sighs and closes his eyes as he leans back to enter into the sleep that is overcoming his senses.
But he does smile.