- [The Vampire Lord’s Castle, Throne Room] -
Shadows cling to the edges of the throne room — a cavernous expanse that drinks in the meager light spilling from wrought-iron sconces. The air is cool; its chill is weaving through the stone halls like a ghostly whisper. An exquisite stillness pervades the chamber, disturbed only by the faint rustle of the Vampire Lord Inkume's cloak as it cascades over the polished obsidian of his throne. His eyes, red as embers in a dying fire, focus intently on the massive serpent coiled before him.
The naga, a formidable figure of sleek scales and coiled muscle, regards him with a gaze that is both piercing and serene. She moves with a grace that belies her monstrous form, her sinuous tail curling and uncurling almost meditatively. Her voice, when it comes, is soft yet resonant, echoing through the room with an animal danger that demands attention from the primitive undermind of a person. Her six-scaled, sleek arms ripple with dense musculature and evoke confusing inner emotions in the thoughts of those souls who were raised in single-parent households.
“I have spoken with my kin,” begins the naga, her eyes flickering with a hint of amusement. “They have agreed to let me leave the gate unguarded by my own hand. The surface calls to me, Vampire Lord, and I wish to answer your… request.”
Inkume leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The stone beneath him seems to vibrate with the weight of his presence, or so he hopes. He's pretty sure he looks intimidating right now.
The consequences of his actions have once again come to bite him in the ass. He had almost forgotten about his excursion to the underworld gate weeks ago, let alone his tactical seduction of the giant snake monster. Now, here she is, in his throne room.
How awkward.
The Vampire Lord plays it off, cool. As if he were entirely unphased by this completely expectable development.
He nods, a small gesture that carries the weight of his acceptance. “The castle welcomes you here. Your family too, it seems?” he muses, looking past her toward the open door, where a few smaller serpentine forms streak by.
~ [Gorgon] ~
A Gorgon.
A minor serpentine hominid akin to naga, lamias, or other hybrids. Gorgons evoke a more primeval sense of emotion in their appearance, given their heads covered in hair made entirely out of snakes. Ranging to just inches under the average size of a standard human adult, their bodies are nonetheless majority serpentine apart from their torso, arms, head, and neck — all of which are vividly scaled and smooth. They are intelligent and dangerous, harboring great hate for the living in their hearts.
How a gorgon is born or made is still unknown, as they seem to simply appear in dark labyrinths, caves, and recesses with access to water.
If one stares into a gorgon's eyes, these monsters are capable of turning said person into a solid stone statue within seconds if not interrupted. This includes the organs, even going so far as to fill the bodies hollow abcesses with stone. How this process works is currently also still unknown by magical scholars, as study of the process has proved extremely difficult. Captive gorgons have been experimented with through relays of mirrors, far-seeing scrying spells, and other methods of distant viewing. However, the effect remains consistent and unchanged.
Type: Lamia {Gorgon} Rank: B- Common Drop: A Bunch of Dead Snakes Rare Drop: Gorgon Hairbrush
The naga's lips curl into a smile, revealing fangs that glisten in the dim light. “They have also taken to the corridors and now roam your halls. I trust they will behave.”
Inkume's own smile is a shard of moonlight. “As long as they don’t turn me into a statue, I think that’s fine,” he quips.
“I want a statue of you, Master,” wheezes Snatch, always present at his side. He pinches her cheek, the ghost letting out a snarling howl as her skin stretches and she kicks her legs.
The room is a study in contrasts — grandiose yet suffused with a subtle menace. Heavy drapes hang from vaulted ceilings, their deep burgundy threads whispering tales of blood and power. The floor, an intricate mosaic of dark stone, reflects the flickering flames in patches of crimson and shadow. A scent of aged wood and something metallic lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense wafting around the castle from elsewhere through the hallways. She shifts, adjusting her coils in a fluid ripple. The movement catches the light, sending a cascade of shimmering reflections across the floor.
It would be wise to consider her more of a wild thing, like Bark, than a monster summoned into his service. The naga is an ally, but not under his control yet. He’ll have to be mindful about having such beings in his inner sanctum. Anything with a connection to the underworld itself is a problem for him, given that he's immortal. But he won't be if somebody throws him into the hole to the dead zone right below his castle.
Why does his evil vampire castle even have that anymore? He really should get that filled in with dirt. It'll come back to haunt him too otherwise.
But for now, she seems fine.
Outside, the storm rages, rain lashing against the castle’s walls with a fury that speaks to Inkume’s own restless spirit. It’s been raining a lot these days. They seem to be entering into a rainy season. He listens to the cadence of the tempest, his face on his hand, his eyes looking intently as if deeply contemplating the happenings of the night.
In reality, his head is empty, but he’s trying to look deep.
A servant butler, unassuming, enters the room with the measured steps of one accustomed to the peculiar nature of his lord's court. He bears a tray with a goblet, the dark liquid within sloshing gently as he approaches the throne. Inkume accepts the drink with a nod, dismissing the servant with a flick of his wrist. The interruption is brief, a mere ripple in the evening’s discourse.
She watches this small exchange with interest. “So. What… what do you do up on the surface?” she asks, having never left the underworld further than his underground caverns.
He sips from the goblet, savoring the rich tang that spills over his tongue. “Me? Well, I drink a lot. I take long baths, and sometimes I like to read,” explains the Vampire Lord. He tilts the cup her way. “I’m living the dream.”
Snatch pops her head up. “He also spends hours every night telling me I’m the favorite and that you’ll never be!” snaps Snatch next to him, glaring at the newcomer. “— Specifically you!” she adds. “And that his heart belongs to me alone,” she barks, as if he wasn’t directly within earshot. “So don’t get any ideas!” warns the jealous ghost.
“Snatch. Please,” asks Inkume, her goopy eyes looking his way pleadingly. He looks over to the Naga. “Don’t mind her. She’s got an energetic personality, is all,” explains the Vampire Lord placatingly as Snatch bares her teeth at the naga, as if hissing at her.
The flames in the sconces gutter, their light casting fleeting shadows that dance across Inkume’s face. He really does seem content, surrounded by the trappings of his rule.
“I see.” The naga gathers herself, her tail curling beneath her like a bed of coiled steel. “I will make my home here for now. Until I find my place in this... strange world above. In the meantime, my family will ensure your castle remains unbreached.”
Inkume inclines his head, the gesture regal, acknowledging her pledge. “Then let us see what this alliance yields. You’ll find, as I have, that this world holds many surprises…” notes the Vampire Lord, narrowing his eyes. “Snatch. Show our new guest around, would you?” he asks. “And be nice.”
“But Master! I want to stay here with you!” argues Snatch.
“Do me the favor, and I’ll let you ask for whatever you want later,” he bargains, rising from his throne. “Excuse me,” says the Vampire Lord to the naga. “I have business to attend to.”
“Anything?” asks Snatch, melting and clinging to his side like a dripping pat of goopy butter as she wheezes out a hacking jackal’s laugh to herself and her imaginations.
“Within reason,” amends Inkume, lifting a hand as he strides out down the staircase as the ghost reluctantly detaches from him like a parasitic worm losing its grip. She watches him leave and then reforms, looking at the giant snake.
The two of them stare at each other quietly for a moment.
“Do you want to go terrorise some adventurers?” asks the ghost. “I know a great spot where they just keep coming!” she explains. “And it’s different ones every time, so you can always scare them fresh!” says the ghost, getting excited.
The giant naga looks down at her. “Would the Vampire Lord not prefer us to remove the threat from his castle rather than… frightening it?”
Snatch shakes her head. “Master says the real threat is not enjoying life while you have it!” she explains as if reciting from a book. “Come on!” says the ghost excitedly, grabbing the naga and vanishing in an instant. “SNATCH!”
----------------------------------------
- [The Vampire Lord’s Castle, Cathedral] -
Music, haunting and inexorable, fills the cathedral — a sound that wraps around the stone pillars and echoes off the vaulted ceiling. A sweet and cloying perfume mingles with the scent of aged stone and dust.
At the far end of the cathedral, the phantom in his theatre mask sits at the grand organ, skeletal fingers dancing across the keys. Each note he plays calls forth angelic monsters, their forms materializing in the air as if conjured from the very music itself. His mask conceals his face, but there's an undeniable intensity in his movements.
~ [{BOSS} Masked Phantom] ~
A Masked Phantom.
A strange nameless being with a dark aura, found only during the bleakest and most somber of nights, playing music within the castle of the dark Vampire Lord. Nobody knows his name or where he came from; nobody knows his intentions or purpose as he toils inside of the darkest halls known to man, playing music so divine that it brings the very guardians of Heaven down into this world — people say they are confused and cannot differentiate his playing from the normal tones that fill paradise.
Never speaking, never leaving his instrument, the Masked Phantom will play entirely indifferently to the chaos around him as his summoned angels attack anything that comes close, likely thinking that any intruders are attempting an assault on the spirit world itself.
Hidden Tactic: The Masked Phantom will ceaselessly play his music, intensifying his summoning the closer to being stopped he becomes as he loses himself to his madness. However, an exceptionally talented singer accompanying his melody and overpowering it will confuse his summoned angels, who will return back whence they came.
Unmasking him will result in immediate defeat as he retreats back into the darkness to hide himself from sight.
Type: Unknown Rank: S Common Drop: A Broken Mask Rare Drop: Angel Summoning Music Box
The adventurers, a ragtag band of warriors and mages, advance cautiously through the pews. Their eyes dart nervously to the angels that hover above, their wings a radiant blur of white and gold. Holy arrows rain down from these celestial beings, forcing the intruders to scatter for cover. A sense of urgency drives them forward. They must reach the phantom and stop the music before they are overwhelmed.
~ [Sacred Archer] ~
A Sacred Archer.
Flying overhead with many wings, sacred archers are masses of arms ringed with golden halos from top to bottom that fire barrages of magical arrows down on any intruders into their protected territories. Being highly defensive creatures, they are highly mobile but will never give chase outside of their designated stations.
Type: Angelic {Cherub} Rank: B Common Drop: Broken Angel’s Bow Rare Drop: Halo Bangle Bracelet
“Damn it!” one of them curses, sliding behind a pillar as a volley of arrows strikes the stone, shattering in a burst of light. Sweat beads on his forehead, mingling with the grime of battle. “We need to get to that organ!”
Another adventurer, a woman with scars etched across her face, nods in agreement. Her grip on her sword tightens. “Well, then keep pushing! We can’t let up.”
The man turns his head, looking at her as barrages of arrows pelt into the pew they’re behind, shaking it as the projectiles thud into the thick, old wood. “You go first, and I’ll go after you; how about?!” he offers, as glowing arrows whizz overhead.
The phantom’s music shifts, a low, ominous chord reverberating through the cathedral. Valkyries swoop down from the rafters, their spears poised to strike. Their war cries echo through the sacred space, a chilling counterpoint to the organ’s relentless melody.
The other adventurers of the group duck and weave, their movements desperate.
One of them, a mage, raises his staff with both hands sideways above his head and conjures a barrier of shimmering energy, deflecting the spear thrusts that threaten to pierce their defenses. A valkyrie flies straight into the barrier, crashing into it and sliding gracelessly down to the floor like a bird that flew into a window.
The cathedral is a place of contradictions — magnificent yet oppressive, sacred yet profane, given its location inside the Vampire Lord’s castle of all places. Stained glass windows depict scenes of divine judgment, their colors muted in the dim light. The organ’s pipes rise like sentinels, gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen. Every surface seems to vibrate with the power of the music, an unnatural force that bends light and sound to its will. It’s like a quake was shaking the fortress.
Collecting together, the adventurers press onward, their resolve hardening against the storm of arrows and spears.
A warrior, muscles tense and eyes alight with defiance, charges ahead. His shield raises to deflect an oncoming lance, and he pushes through the pain of a glancing blow. “I’ll draw their fire! The rest of you, get to that damn organ!” he calls, ducking down as a pair of wings flashes over his head.
His companions move with renewed urgency, using the opening he creates to advance. The mage’s barrier flickers, the strain evident as sweat drips from his brow as he maintains the projection above their heads now instead, catching volleys of arrows. “Let’s end this,” he mutters, his voice barely audible above the din. “I’m running out of energy!” he calls to the group, his hands shaking.
The phantom’s fingers continue their relentless dance, the music swelling to a crescendo as the angels reform in formation, creating an ornate line toward them on either side of him down the main corridor between the pews. A second later, they break out as if in a waltz, pairing as they float through the cathedral air, flying in tune with the music in rotating circles. Each pair is one valkyrie with a spear and shield and one archer, each spinning around the other and their units spinning around the adventurers.
The valkyries, with their shields, intercept any projectiles and spells, while the archers maintain a constant barrage of counterfire.
Getting a foothold is impossible. The attacks from above are relentless, and because of the many pews and only a few slender aisles between them all, movement for any attackers is limited inside of the cathedral. Shields and wards are the only way to stay safe in the middle of the open space, and they’re running thin at this point halfway through the fight.
The phantom is really untouchable, a conductor of chaos who orchestrates the battle with unerring precision. Although it’s hard to tell if he’s even doing so on purpose or if this is all simply a side effect of what he does. The angels are his instruments, the adventurers his audience — a performance of life and death playing out in the shadow of the altar.
As the adventurers draw near, the phantom pauses, his head tilting slightly as if acknowledging their approach, staring at them through the mask.
For a brief moment, the music falters, a discordant note ringing out before he resumes his melody. The angels redouble their assault, the air thick with the light of their arrows.
The music never stops that night.
----------------------------------------
- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
Faint whispers of incense coil through the dim chamber, anointing the air with its heady scent. So this is where it’s coming from. He smelled it all the way in his throne room.
The chapel — an intimate alcove within the vastness of the Vampire Lord's castle — breathes solitude, its silence a balm against the outer world’s clamor. He’s never seen this before. This is further away from the cathedral, instead being on the opposite side of the castle near the observatory and the alchemy laboratory.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
[{Restored} Chapel]
{Lost Cherub Arrival Zone}
This room houses all of the odds and ends needed in order to partake in deeply mutual conversations between two parties regarding the nature of their differences. Straps, belts, chains, needles, and everything else required for healthy, constructive dialogue had once been here.
— But now it’s not.
Room Effects: [Demon]-type monsters are not allowed to enter this floor of the castle.
The room is active. Wayward monsters might find their way here.
Candles flicker atop iron sconces, their light casting a gentle glow across the rough-hewn stone and illuminating the dust particles that dance lazily in the air. The warmth from the flames licks at the dampness, greatly tempering the chill that hopes to seep through the ancient walls.
Vampire Lord Inkume, as a shadow among shadows, steps quietly into the chapel. His presence disrupts the gentle equilibrium of the room. His gaze lands on her — Agnis, the knight. Her long rabbit’s ears twitch slightly, the only sign she is aware of his presence, but her eyes remain closed, her expression tranquil.
Agnis sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a haze of incense smoke that curls around her like a protective shroud. Her armor, set aside, glints softly in the candlelight.
She is a paradox — both fierce and serene — a blend of contradictions that Inkume finds intriguing. He watches as she moves her hands through the smoke, tracing patterns that are familiar only to her.
“Is there a particular reason you’re still doing this?” Inkume’s voice, low and smooth, cuts through the quiet with a gentleness.
Her eyes open slowly, meeting his without surprise. “It’s a habit,” she replies, her voice soft but steady. “A ritual, I suppose.”
He crosses his arms, leaning casually against a stone pillar. “The creature that hunted you is gone. The incense isn’t necessary anymore.”
Agnis smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “Necessary or not, it feels strange to let go of it. It’s... comforting.” She takes in a deep, long breath. The faint wisp of smoke enters her and then leaves again. “I’ve been doing this for the better part of a decade,” explains the rabbit girl, opening her eyes and looking back at him over her shoulder. “It’s hard to stop a habit like this. — Not that I want to. This is how I pray.”
Inkume considers this, his gaze lingering on the delicate smoke that swirls around her like a finger along her delicate neck that he’s only ever seen once this close. The thick jugular on the front of it rises and falls as she swallows and breathes. He of all people knows the logic of rituals, of habits that anchor the soul even when their purpose has faded.
“So I need to ask. Sorry if this is too personal, but are you really religious, then? Or was the church just shelter for you?” asks the Vampire Lord.
Agnis pauses, her fingers stilling in the smoke. She seems to weigh her words, the silence stretching between them. “I don’t know,” she admits finally and plainly. “Maybe it was both. Azalea could tell you more about faith if you want to learn, though. She’s the true believer between us.”
He lifts his hands, shaking his head. “Azalea’s a charm, but she’s kind of intense,” he sighs. “She scares me a little,” he admits, only half playfully.
Agnis laughs, likely thinking this is fully a joke. It is not.
“Don’t be hard on her. Azalea loves her faith and her brother,” says the knight. “So it’s natural that she wants to share those things with you.”
The chapel’s atmosphere is thick with the scent of her incense, a fragrance that clings to skin and fabric. Light and shadow play across the stone floor in a dance that mirrors the flicker of the candles. The air is surprisingly warm in here. The chapel is very small, and the mess of candles certainly does their work.
“I’m not that interested in religion,” he admits, although that was perhaps more true of his old world than this new one, given the implications of its existence at all. He steps inside, next to her, and sits down on the ground by her side. He looks up at the mural she’s meditating in front of. “I’ve found, Agnis, that what I’m really interested in is people. Although, saying that, Cvet doesn’t really talk to me,” says Inkume. “I haven’t seen him much since I bit him.”
Agnis resumes her meditation, her focus returning to the smoke. He looks to his side at her, watching a bead of sweat trickle down from her chin along her nape. There is a grace to her calm movements — a fluidity that speaks of discipline honed through years of practice. For her, this ritual is a tether — a connection to a past that now no longer exists. “You bit me,” she notes. “And here you are, running after me. So I don’t think that’s it.”
“I wasn’t running after you; I was making sure some adventurers didn’t start a fire that would burn my castle down.” He taps his nose. He was just following the smell of incense here.
He hadn’t really thought about it, but now that the monster hunting her is dead, her life as it was is essentially over. Despite the obvious positive context of the matter, it must nonetheless be frightening in its own way. Inkume watches her for a moment longer, then turns his gaze back to the mural. It is bare, devoid of the symbols one might expect. The chapel, compared to the cathedral on the other side of the castle, is very simple and plain.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, the knight not opening her eyes. “Do we need to kill the evil Vampire Lord?”
She inhales deeply, letting the incense fill her lungs before exhaling slowly. “I think, for now, that I’m willing to let him survive a few more nights,” says Agnis. “But I want to know something,” she says, rolling a shoulder.
His lips quirk into the shadow of a smile. “I suppose that makes sense.”
Agnis opens her eyes again, regarding him with a steady gaze. “Who are you?”
The question lingers, suspended between them. He lets it hang there, unanswered, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities they both face. The world outside may be filled with conflict, with battles fought both within and without, but here in this moment, there is only the quiet.
He points at himself. “The evil Vampire Lord,” explains Inkume plainly. He pinches his shoulder. “I think the cloak gives it away,” he notes, pointing at his bat-shaped lapels to emphasize his point.
“You have a great sense of humor for a horrific monster,” says the knight, resting her palms on her lap. She lifts her eyes, looking at the mural. “For the longest time, I was someone who could never have anything,” starts Agnis. “Because of what was after me, I could never have what other people had,” she explains, lifting a hand and letting her finger run over the flaking, old paint of a crude image of two people walking hand in hand, a dark shadow lingering behind them. It’s an old tale from scripture, retold in simple imagery. “But I could do something else,” she explains, tilting her finger sideways behind them like a barrier between the people and the shadow chasing them. “I could be this other thing, this non-person that lived with people but wasn’t one of them,” she says. “I was like a creature in a crowd of men.”
Inkume watches her, a sense of familiarity to her words that he doesn’t like, in all honesty.
“I’d do my job and protect people and keep them safe so I could ogle and observe them, like animals in a cage I was studying. It was like I was thirsty but could only ever watch other people drink instead.” She lets her finger fall from the wall. “I’d bring them water, and I’d watch. And that would do it for me. And it did, for a while. For a long time, actually,” she explains, her long rabbit’s ears drooping down past her neck. “Until one day it didn’t. And I felt like I was missing…”
“- Nourishment,” finishes Inkume, knowing where she’s been. She looks at him. “It’s like always being with them, but never really where they are,” he explains in his pseudo-logic.
Agnis nods, a crumble of her burning incense falling down into a heap as the flame draws lower to the base. “Despite your actions and behavior, you remain a danger to this world, Vampire Lord,” explains Agnis. “I would be remiss to not note that the best path forward for every life on this plane of existence would be for you to be utterly destroyed and vanished into the darkness forever.”
“Ouch,” he notes.
The incense burns out; a last puff of smoke rising from the ashen crumbles.
“— But I’ve always had a soft spot for certain specific things,” says Agnis quietly and almost shyly scooping together the cooling ash with a hand. “So here I am, trying to figure it all out,” she says. “Who are you, Inkume?” repeats the knight.
He understands now that she isn’t asking him for the sake of her mission to safekeep the world from unholy threats. She’s asking him because she has recognized through some keenness of her senses that they are alike in this way — outsiders, pretending to belong — because wearing that human mask and acting like a person is a survival strategy fitting enough to sustain one for a long time. But eventually, that well runs dry, and the applicator finds themselves lost and empty, with no other source of that rare connection left anywhere else to be found because of their limited ability to bond. She has recognized that he is further ahead of her in this process. She’s free now, free to become whoever she wants to be. But how could she possibly become anybody else when she’s spent her entire life becoming who she is right now?
“I told you, Agnis,” he replies. “I’m the evil Vampire Lord,” explains Inkume plainly. “Because that’s who the people important to me need me to be.” His eyes narrow. “If you say you’ll need to kill me, then that’s a problem not because I matter, but because they need me to be here, and that does matter,” says the Vampire Lord. “And for their sake, I will fight you if you make me.”
She looks at him and then nods. “I’ve never met a chivalrous monster before,” she prods. “Thank you for helping me as you have, Inkume,” says Agnis. “I have a lot to think about.” It’s quiet for a moment before she — with her legs still crossed — scoots closer and turns away from him. “I owe you for freeing me, I suppose,” she says.
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t a transaction,” explains the vampire.
Agnis’ ears lift, and she swipes her hair to the side, looking back over her shoulder his way. “Then I suppose I just want to give you something in return, and I have nothing else except this,” she corrects, showing him her neck, the striking of her heartbeat letting her visible artery pulse. “One last time,” she says.
Inkume’s hands rest on her shoulders, his breath touching her neck before he even realises he’s taken her and pulled her in onto his lap. His teeth stop, just barely above her skin, the knight’s body tensing up as she presses herself back against him. “W-What are you waiting for?” she asks, only for her question to be followed by her own loud cry as his fangs immediately sink into her neck from behind, as if only lacking a final provocation to enter her body.
With both arms wrapped around her front above and below, the vampire clutches her tightly against himself and drinks as Agnis’ voice falls quiet and her breathing into a steady rhythm that matches his.
One hand of hers reaches back, holding the back of his head through his hair, and the other grasps his thigh as her hips and body sink against him.
[Experience Points Gained] You have drunk a large amount of blood from a confused, powerful knight!
*★✧+- [LEVEL UP!] -+✧★* You are now level 447!
NEW ABILITY [Pheromonic Manipulation] Active Ability • In order to deeply unnerve your opponents — destroying their psyche within your shadow — allows you to alter the smell of the sweat of every person within {50} meters of your castle. Doing so will perhaps unnerve them, preoccupying their minds from focusing on halting your dreadful terror to come. Probably.
The smoke of the candles around them continues its lazy dance, unbothered.
----------------------------------------
- [Azalea] -
Faint moonlight dances across the surfaces, casting elongated shadows that twist and contort like creatures of their own volition.
— Sometimes, they are, of course.
~ [Living Shadow] ~
A Living Shadow.
Brought on by the edges of madness, deprivation, and despair, living shadows are vaguely human-shaped entities that only ever move on the periphery of one’s vision. They are not considered to be monsters but rather passive magical phenomena, as they never attack and seem content to only exist and linger, extruding from themselves a dark and malicious aura.
Some scholars consider them to be magical parasites that feed off of the negative magical energies of the living spirits of people, but this claim has yet to be verified.
Type: Entity Rank: Unknown Common Drop: Unknown Rare Drop: Unknown
The scent of wax and dust lingers — a quiet testament to the passage of time.
Azalea, the elven priestess, makes her way through the dimness, her steps light and purposeful as she makes her rounds, exploring the castle and talking to adventurers, trying to convert them to the faith. She hasn’t had much success, but she is determined to practice on them in order to have better chances of bringing the Vampire Lord into the light of God.
She hears a noise.
With her curiosity piqued, Azalea pauses at a room’s threshold, her gaze lingering on the living doll seated just beyond the glass of a grand mirror.
She and her have met only once before, back during Azalea’s first visit to the castle all of those months ago.
The doll sits with poised concentration, a small brush held delicately between her fingers as she applies white paint to her own wooden arms. Her porcelain face is a study in serene elegance, yet there is a tension in her movements — a hint of the unease that shadows her thoughts. She senses Azalea's presence, and her glass eyes flicker with a wary awareness.
“Good evening,” Azalea greets, her voice gentle, carried on the still air.
The doll blinks, her expression guarded. “Hello,” she replies, her tone polite yet edged with suspicion. “What brings you here?” she asks in a dry voice, hinting forced manners.
Azalea steps closer, her reflection joining the doll's in the mirror's polished surface. “I was merely wandering. But I didn't expect to find much company, honestly.”
The doll resumes her painting, each stroke deliberate and careful. “You haven’t. I prefer to be alone,” she notes, making her desire obvious.
Azalea, despite being snubbed, offers a warm smile, unfazed by the doll's reticence. “Would you like some help with that?” She gestures to the brush in the doll’s hand.
For a moment, the doll hesitates, her eyes meeting Azalea's in the glass. Then, with a reluctant nod, she extends the brush. “If you wish.”
Azalea tentatively touches the glass of the mirror and then steps inside through it, like Inkume had shown her how to do. She doesn’t like using these shortcuts much. She’s always afraid that one day she’ll step into the glass and it’ll become solid behind her. Perhaps that’s nonsensical, but it’s nonetheless what the back of her mind tells her could maybe, possibly, happen. So she just takes the long way, usually. But the castle is kind to her and creates shortcuts and bends hallways for her, making her travels much quicker compared to the others, she’s noticed.
She steps into the mirrored castle, looking around at the inverted room, and then sits down next to the doll. Azalea takes the brush, her movements smooth and confident as she begins to paint the doll's arms. The paint glides easily over the wood, transforming it into a seamless continuation of her porcelain form. As she works, Azalea notices the tension in the doll's posture gradually easing. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” says Azalea. “After our first encounter, I wasn’t sure if I was just mad or not,” admits the elf. “Thank you for helping me save Inkume back then," says the priestess, referring to when the doll had used her mirrors to bring her to Inkume when he was starving.
The doll looks to the side. “If I could change the past, I wouldn’t do it again,” she says coldly. “If I had the choice.”
Azalea doesn’t respond, simply turning over the thin arm and looking at the old, half-painted wood. She lifts her gaze, studying the doll for a moment.
“...What?” asks the doll.
Azalea shakes her head and then resumes painting the arm, doing a much better job than the doll herself did. “I don’t think that’s true,” muses the priestess, smiling. “You look like you have kind eyes.”
The doll studies her and then looks away, the sound of rattling wood and porcelain filling the air for a moment as silence takes what is left of the space.
“…I don’t,” says the doll, watching as Azalea runs the brush up along her arm. The priestess sets the brush down for a moment, wiping her fingers off on a cloth, before carefully grabbing the sleeve of the doll’s dress and gently folding it up higher to keep it away from the paint.
“Okay,” is all that Azalea says before grabbing the brush again and painting.
Of course. She could ask why the doll is sitting here by herself, trying to paint her own arms. She could ask why there seems to be some animosity in the air between the entity and the others in the castle. But that’s not her place. She’s not a gossip; she’s a priestess of the faith. So, Azalea quietly works, painting the wooden arm and filling in the deep scratches and broken parts of the wood with thicker layers to even out the smoothness of the final surface. It takes a little while because she works slowly and steadily, but she finishes the first arm and then begins work on the second. The doll holds the painted arm straight out to the side to let it dry.
“So, why do you stay in the mirrors?” Azalea asks, her curiosity genuine, as she tries to bridge the tense quiet. “You could stay outside with me, if you’d like,” offers the elf, trying to extend an olive branch. “Or are your… I don’t know, powers somehow tied to this place?” she asks, quietly looking around the inverted room they’re in.
The doll’s answer is quiet, almost a whisper. “I have no powers of my own.” Her voice carries a note of vulnerability she rarely shares. “But anyone can use the mirror’s illusions if they know how.”
Azalea pauses, her hand stilling in its task. “So you’re just in here to stay safe?”
The doll nods, her painted lips forming a small, wistful smile. “And to be pretty. It helps,” she says, looking over to the side at a mirror to study herself. But she seems displeased, but she looks away again after a quick moment.
Azalea resumes her work, her touch gentle as she applies the finishing strokes. “Can I ask why, though? You’re safe everywhere here, you know. Inkume is a kind soul, despite appearances. You're safe outside with the rest of us,” says Azalea. "I should know best; I'm just some elf from a village you'll never hear the name of in your life," notes the priestess.
The doll remains silent, her eyes fixed on the reflection of Azalea’s hands as they move with ease.
The mirrored world is a quiet refuge compared to the chaotic castle beyond it — a space where the world outside recedes, leaving only the soft echo of their voices. Azalea, out of the corners of her eyes, watches as adventurers and monsters fight all around them — viewed through a variety of different mirrors angled around the area.
The doll never answers.
Azalea finishes her task, setting the brush aside and admiring her handiwork. The doll's wooden arms now match her porcelain face in color, if not in material. “There. Beautiful, if I may say so,” says the priestess, beaming.
The doll nods, her expression softening as she looks at herself. “Thank you.”
Azalea rises, brushing off her hands and stepping back from the mirror. “Anytime you need help or just want company, you know where to find me,” says Azalea, pointing around herself to the many mirrors. “Hey, what’s your name?” she asks, turning around to look her way again. “I’m Azalea.”
The doll just stares at her for a moment and then looks back down at her hands, not replying. Azalea shrugs, not taking offense as she quietly waves and steps back out of the mirror glass.
The doll watches her go, waiting until she leaves, and then looks back down at her own hands. She tries to close her fingers. They look prettier than before. But they still don’t really work, do they?
She smiles a wistful smile.
There’s no point, is there? This will all be over soon. It won't take that long anymore, before -
Her thought is interrupted. A moment later, she lets out a surprised cry, finding herself lifted up into the air. “Hey, sorry,” says Azalea, having come back. “I’m going to steal you for a second, okay?” she asks.
“Absolutely not!” protests the doll, struggling as the elf carries her in her arms, back toward a mirror. “Unhand me at once!”
The elf looks down at her. “What if I told you I know where they keep the really nice dresses?” asks Azalea, lowering her voice. “I found a stockpile the other day, near the attic,” she explains. “We could grab ourselves a couple?” suggests the elf, lifting a paint-spotted finger over her lips to hint that this would, of course, be a secret of theirs. “I really need something pretty to wear too, like your dress,” says the elf.
The doll looks at her and then down at herself. “This… this old thing?” she asks. “It’s horrific. It was the style of the time when I was made.”
"Well, you clearly know more about clothes than I do, so will you help me? Please?” asks Azalea. She tugs at her robe. "I've been wearing this thing for months now," she says, lowering her voice. "Don't tell anyone, but I've been washing it in the bath," whispers the elf to her.
The doll, her porcelain face stuck somewhere between a frustrated pout and an annoyed explosion about to happen, then relinquishes. “I suppose this will be our exchange, then,” she concedes, but makes it clear she is struggling with the idea of doing so in her tone. “Very well. But only quickly,” she notes, looking up at the elf who has already dragged her through a mirror without stopping.
Of course, Azalea didn’t actually need her help with this, but it was a well-concocted scheme that both of them understand is merely a complot to drag the doll out of hiding. But both of them pretend that they don’t know this.
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It’s a fun time, until they have to run away back into the mirrors together because they were chased off by a swarm of giant spidergirls — offended that the pretty dresses and gowns they made for the Vampire Lord were being pilfered.
— Why he would ever need these is unclear, but they tailored them nonetheless to be sure, just in case he ever asked one night.
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Landing back into the mirror together, the two of them spend a while having fun and laughing as they try on a variety of things together, the likes of which neither of them — the millenia old doll or the simple village priestess — have ever really seen before.
“Schaufenster,” says the doll as Azalea ties a pretty ribbon around her neck. “That’s my name,” she says.
“How old-fashioned!" says Azalea, sounding delightfully charmed. The language of the dead Empire hasn't been spoken outside of church archives in hundreds of years. Although some names and traditions do persist here and there. "Hey, can I paint your legs too?” asks the elf abruptly, looking at her.
“I beg your Pardon?” asks the doll, looking back at her as the elf already has the brush in her hand, holding a blushing cheek with her other.
“We were really poor, so I’ve never gotten to play with a cute doll before,” says Azalea, lightly waving the brush back and forth. Schaufenster looks surprised at the compliment. “I only ever had these lumpy straw toys I made myself or the sticks I stole from my dumb brother so he’d stop trying to fight me with them. So, if you don’t mind…”
“'Cute'?” she mutters quietly. The doll looks down at her unpainted wooden legs that fill into her dainty shoes and then back at the delighted elf, eagerly waving the brush around like an excited dog wagging its tail.
Nobody has wanted to play with her in a really long time.
“…I suppose,” replies Schaufenster, averting her gaze, but her eyes snap back as Azalea happily cheers and picks her up. In a panic, instinctively afraid she’s about to be flung across the room, Schaufenster grabs the elf’s dress tightly for safety and holds onto it.
The doll doesn’t notice much of what the elf says as she starts painting her wooden legs. She’s too busy staring at her own fingers. They won’t unclasp from the dress they’re latched onto. Maybe that might be because the dried paint has made them stick that way, but maybe it isn't.