- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -

Vampire Lord Inkume stirs within his stone sarcophagus, the lid creaking open with a mournful groan. His eyes snap open with an intensity strong enough to give whiplash to any foolish dustmites daring to cling to his luscious lashes. His pupils dilate to drink in the scant light. A faint pressure on his side draws his attention. Snatch has wrapped herself around him in slumber, her translucent form shimmering like mist. Her lips twitch, muttering something about rats, a furrow creasing her ethereal brow.

He hadn’t ever thought about ghosts and their ability to sleep, but apparently they can ‘shut themselves down’, for a lack of better terminology, in order to save energy for a while. This is what she did for a long time after the old Vampire Lord was defeated, but the castle remained.

Inkume never did quite understand how that particular part worked. The castle was born from the Vampire Lord’s powers, wasn’t it? So why didn’t it just vanish together with him?

— Another oddity of life for the collection.

A heavy stillness pervades the crypt. Spiders twist and coil, clinging to the corners of the room in their darkened cobwebs. The air is lingering with the scent of damp soil and old, forgotten memories that really are better off forgotten. A faint glow emanates from the phosphorescent fungi clinging to the walls, casting a sickly green light that flickers with the illusion of life. He’s seen the mold before too, down in the basement on a mirror when he went down there for the first time. It seems to be here and there in the castle. The old place has its quirks, that’s for sure.

With careful precision, Inkume pries Snatch off of himself, her form dispersing slightly as she floats away like a plastic bag in the wind, resettling into an incorporeal slumber. Lightly catching her, he gently pushes her back toward the coffin as he rises out of it himself, the satin lining of the sarcophagus whispering against his clothes. He closes it with a finality that echoes through the chamber. Snatch will catch up to him when she's up. Tonight promises to be an eventful night like any other.

He steps out, feeling the cold stone underfoot. A subtle tension lingers in the air, a hint of something amiss. His useless, awe-inspiring vampire senses alert him to danger but are not telling him exactly what it is.

His foot catches a tripwire, snapping it with a soft twang. Instinct flares — too late.

A cup of water arcs through the air, colliding against his pants front, making it look like he wet himself. The liquid sizzles and burns, steam rising from his clothes. Holy water. His eyes narrow in annoyance. One of Snatch’s pranks, perhaps?

No. Snatch wouldn’t.

A snickering fills the air as his burnt pants mend themselves over a span of a few seconds.

Then he sees it — a dark fairy flitting through the gloom, laughter trailing behind as it darts toward the chamber’s exit. Inkume’s lips curl in a silent grimace. Sighing, he shakes his head, brushing the remnants of the holy water from his attire with a few tufts of smoke rising from his fingers.

He’ll just order Bark to go to the forest outside the castle and kill them all, the traitorous wretches. No. He’ll tell her to kill only the old and bring the young to him. He’ll do the rest himself.

Silence fills the chamber.

What an odd thought that was. No, no. He’s gotten carried away again. He’ll just handle the situation himself. Fun and games are one thing, but he can’t have people playing with holy water in his brooding evil vampire castle. It’s a workplace hazard.

“...Why do I even have holy water here…?” mutters Inkume to himself, holding his chin. It's a fine question, for a fine night such as this one.

The fairy’s antics are a nuisance, but for now, he has more pressing matters. For example, he thinks he's almost strong enough to bring back that dragon without it breaking the bank.

Smugly content, he strides toward the door at the top of the underground chamber, intent on leaving this dank tomb behind for the start of the night. Snatch will wake up when she wakes up. His fingers curl around the handle, expecting the usual resistance.

It doesn’t budge.

A frown creases his brow as he applies more force to no avail and then pulls, thinking the door is stuck. But then the door gives way too suddenly — hinges reversed — and he tumbles backward, losing his footing as he rolls all the way down the dramaticially long staircase. He lands hard, a jarring impact that reverberates through his frame.

Damn it.

The fairy’s laughter echoes, mocking. Inkume pushes himself to his feet, irritation simmering beneath the surface. The chamber seems to close in around him, the air heavy with silence once more. He draws a breath, smoothing the lines of his clothes with practiced ease, regaining his composure.

“Very funny,” mutters the Vampire Lord, glad that nobody else saw that. Just the fairy. It would be bad for the marketing image of the Vampire Lord if anyone knew he fell on his tushie.

— It will have to die.

His gaze flickers to the shadows where the fairy is hiding. Enough is enough. His form blurs, shifting into the sleek, predatory shape of a black panther. Muscles ripple beneath his fur as he springs into motion.

[Midnight Monster] You have transformed into a Wildcat!

The fairy’s laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a startled cry as it flits desperately ahead of him.

The chase is on.

As he bounds up the crypt stairs again anew, the air becomes a blur of motion and sound. The screaming fairy veers sharply out through the door, trying to lose him in the maze of corridors, but Inkume is relentless. He rounds a corner, the fairy's wings buzzing madly as it darts upward, aiming for a narrow window high above. With a powerful leap, Inkume almost reaches it, swiping with a claw-adorned paw.

The fairy lets out a terrified shriek, banking sharply out of reach, its laughter now gone and instead replaced with panic as it shoots out into the night, just barely getting away by a whisper’s distance.

Inkume lands gracefully, the impact echoing through the corridor.

He watches the fairy disappear into the night, a flicker of annoyance crossing his mind.

Another time.

He slips back into his humanoid form, the transition seamless.

After a moment, Inkume stops again.

“...Why the hell did I do that?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head. It’s a good thing he didn’t actually catch the fairy; he really lost himself in his temper there for a moment. It’s very unlike him. He's sure he would have hurt the creature if it had been so unfortunate.

Must be all the work-related stress.

Nonetheless, the new dark fairy problem needs to be resolved before they hurt somebody who can't regenerate their clothes and less important things like skin or their eyes.

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His figure moves through the undergrowth with a purpose, his presence a ripple in the night's otherwise serene tranquility. The Vampire Lord walks with the grace of one accustomed to the darkness — like a lanky model with abandonment issues for an in-vogue gothic fashion company, his sharp gaze cutting through the murk of his father’s absence in his troubled childhood home as he broods about the past. Despite this dramatic, pompous flair, his thoughts are measured, considering the path ahead and the night’s potential challenges. He'll need to come up with a scheme to deal with these little varmints.

He’s left the confines of his castle and come to the forest in pursuit of his nightly problem to solve. They live out here.

— There really always is something, isn’t there?

A shroud of cool mist clings to the forest floor, curling around gnarled roots and moss-covered stones. The air is rich with the dank scent of damp leaves and the quiet hum of nocturnal creatures chittering, singing, and buzzing around the woods. Moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting ghostly patterns on the ground that shift and dance with the breeze. The night is alive with whispers of trees — some of which do actually have whispering faces — as well as a symphony of rustling branches and distant hoots. A chill lingers, biting at exposed skin and stirring the subtle awareness of unseen eyes watching from the shadows.

— He’s turned off the ability that makes everything’s eyes glow yellow. It was too much of a headache, trying to get anything done when the night looked like a rave in an abandoned mustard factory.

“Master,” greets an old voice — an actual talking tree with a crooked, groaning face. It's branches are barren, and it looks quite frightening, really.

“Hey. How's it going?” asks Inkume, looking at the twisted, gnolled eyes and mouth made out of jagged bark.

It groans, the bark crackling and splintering as it turns from side to side ever so slowly, like a man pivoting his torso. “My branches…” it lets out, its voice as splintered and dry as its exterior. “They yearn for the weight of bodies strung from thin nooses.”

~ [Hanging Tree] ~

A Hanging Tree.

It is said that objects, places, and particular spiritual potencies become haunted because of the powerful magical imprint left there either through a specific event or a long-drawn period of gradual residual magical touching.

A hanging tree is proof of this phenomenon in action. Born of the lamentations of countless dead, the tree has come to life through the mark of their suffering. Seen as indescribably bad omens, hanging trees have nonetheless been intently fostered and created by rulers and despots across the world as a visible mark of their power over their subjects.

It is said that to be hung from a hanging tree makes it impossible for one’s soul to rise to heaven regardless of devoutness because its roots reach all the way down into the underworld.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Type: Spirit {Kami} Rank: A Common Drop: Deadman’s Bark Rare Drop: Unbreakable Rope

Inkume stands there, one hand under his arm and his other hand tapping his chin. “Mm… Mm…" notes the Vampire Lord, acknowledgingly. His finger leaves his face, pointing instead at the tree. “Good stuff. But have you considered just growing apples?” he asks plainly, in an almost delighted voice.

The tree shakes itself; if it had leaves, they would be rustling nicely now. However, instead, the bare branches with many sharp twigs simply rub and thwack against each other, like bristles. Long rotted sections of rope sections dangle like rotted strands of hair here and there. “Apples?” it asks, confused. “Master… I am a hanging tree,” it says. “The bodies of the hopeless crying are what are meant to weigh my branches.” It shakes one side of itself. “Big branches for the big ones.” Then it shakes the other. “…Small branches for the small ones.”

Inkume nods and then steps toward it. “Sure, sure. Love it.” He puts his hand on either side of its trunk, bends over, and looks at its sunken, empty eyes that bore down into its rotted, worm-filled trunk. “But what do you want to be?” he asks.

The tree’s hollow, mournful gaze looks at him, its crackling exterior crumbling as it moves like dead skin flaking off of a slumbering reptile as it wakes from its dreams. It looks around itself to the left, then to the right. The empty holes that it has for eyes observe the glade around them before it looks back up to him. “…Elsewhere,” is all that it says.

“Done, and done,” replies the Vampire Lord easily. He snaps his fingers once.

A black-robed silhouette appears immediately, a scythe over its shoulder — the gardener. Inkume waves to him. “Do me a favor, please, and bring this fine man over into the gardens,” says the Vampire Lord, his hand rubbing the tree’s exterior. “And get him some moisture,” he notes, crumbling the dust of old bark between his fingers. He waves them off. “Keep up the fine work, gentlemen.”

He walks deeper into the forest by himself.

The snap of a twig draws his attention now, and he turns to see a familar boy emerge from the shadows.

It's Cvet, Azalea's younger brother.

They stare at each other for a moment and then exchange quiet nods, a silent acknowledgment of a shared space. The boy speaks first, his voice a low murmur against the backdrop of night sounds. “Out hunting innocent people again?” he asks.

A flicker of amusement crosses the vampire's face. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never hunted any innocent people before,” replies Inkume. Cvet rolls his eyes, clearly not believing that. How could he, of course? Inkume is only a Vampire Lord by fluke, essentially. In this world, a real Vampire Lord is thought of to only be capable of existing by slaughtering thousands over just as many years. Cvet doesn’t know he just got the job for free, which does seem a little unfair to those souls who had to put in the legwork to get the position. But, then again, they’re kind of jerks, so it’s not really a truly karmic issue, is it? “Why are you out here? Heading back home?”

The boy corrects his posture, adjusting the bow slung across his shoulder. “I don’t trust the food in your castle. Might be tainted with some kind of black magic,” he explains.

Inkume offers a reassuring smile, though his eyes remain thoughtful. “There’s no need for suspicion. My kitchens are safe," he starts, but then lifts a hand. "As long you eat exclusively what Fi-Fi brings you, and nothing lying around. But you’re welcome to gather your own if it puts your mind at ease.” Inkume tilts his head. “Anyway. I have some problem children to deal with. If you’ll excuse me -” Inkume walks off, waving a hand to him and knowing that as he turns away, the boy is looking down at his bow and considering his options despite everything. “Unless you want to join?” asks the Vampire Lord, looking back at him. Cvet looks up in quiet, confused surprise. “I suspect the little devils are a problem for your village as well.”

Inkume keeps walking.

The boy hesitates, then falls into step beside him.

Their footsteps blend into the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. The conversation turns to Azalea, and the vampire’s tone softens, a hint of regret lacing his words. He explains the misunderstanding that originally led to the rift between him and the village — a story of misplaced intentions. Cvet listens, skepticism etched on his features, though he admits his sister had told him much the same and that it all does seem to verify.

“Then what are your intentions with her?” asks Cvet. “— My sister.”

The question hangs in the air, charged with unspoken concern. The vampire shakes his head, brushing aside the notion. “None, truly. She’s a friend,” says the Vampire Lord. He looks down at Cvet. “Even if she does keep trying to get me to pray.”

“You too?” sighs the boy, looking exasperated.

“I see you’ve also been accosted by the faith,” muses Inkume.

Cvet shakes his head. “I can’t say I put much stock in it,” he explains. “But it matters to her, and so it matters to me,” he explains. “She’s my sister.”

Inkume nods. That’s a nice sentiment. Azalea is always fussing about Cvet, and the two of them seem to be at odds more often than not. But they seem to at least really worry about each other at the end of the night.

Neither of them speak anymore.

Their path winds deeper into the forest, the shadows thickening around them. The air grows colder, the silence more pronounced.

All of the animals nearby have fallen silent.

A rustle overhead — a shadow swoops low, barely visible against the night sky.

Instinct flares, and the vampire acts without thought, shoving Cvet to the ground as a massive log swings through the space they occupied moments before. The heavy trap passes with a whoosh and a crash as it smashes into a tree, leaving the air tinged with danger. Heart pounding, Cvet looks up, eyes wide with shock. All around them, dark fairies materialize from the gloom, their laughter a mocking chorus. Their tiny forms flit about, wings buzzing with mischief.

“I think we found them,” notes Inkume. “I suppose I should have mentioned that I came here because of exactly this,” he says, bothered as he looks at the smashed tree nearby.

The vampire’s gaze sweeps the clearing, assessing the threat. The fairies hover, emboldened by their numbers, their eyes gleaming with malice. They’re his monsters, but the fairies are so intent on causing trouble that they’re not averse to engaging in friendly fire, even against their Master.

The little wretches. He’ll twist their heads clean off their tiny necks.

The boy scrambles to his feet, looking to the vampire for guidance. “Stay close,” says Inkume, his voice steady despite the tension as a few hundred glowing eyes peer down from above. “They’re troublesome, but manageable.”

The fairies circle them.

“Uh, why do they look like they hate you?” Cvet asks, a note of curiosity threading through the fear.

“Oh, they don’t hate me,” the vampire replies plainly, eyes fixed on their tormentors. “This is just what they are, what they do,” he explains. “We need to make it clear that I run this show and they’ll snap back in line.”

“How?” asks Cvet. “Do we kill some of them? They are monsters.”

One of the fairies darts forward, daring, its laughter a shrill note in the night as it lunges from the side at Cvet. Instinctively, Inkume swats it away with a swift motion, his patience thinning. It tumbles, flying down dramatically to the ground with a long-tailed scream like a crashing helicopter as it spirals. The other fairies pause, uncertainty flickering in their eyes as they watch the first one hit the ground after a very long descent. It seems to have enjoyed the theatrics of the moment, even if his hitting it was pretty real.

Quietly, Inkume reaches down and picks up the fallen fairy between two fingers. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, as the snarling fairy in his grip nurses a sore spot on its flank. “No, Cvet,” he says, looking at the boy. “We deal with them the same as you would with anyone who wants to be a professional comedian,” explains the Vampire Lord, looking back at the swarm above them. “We threaten them with getting a real job.”

The fairies linger, their antics tempered by the vampire’s presence. The forest holds its breath.

Inkume flicks the captured fairy back into the air and then points at the collective, a cruel smile on his face. “Tonight, my good fellows, I’m holding a little contest,” starts the Vampire Lord, his ruby eyes washing over the fairies. “ — A game.” Suddenly they seem much interested, and a series of faces and heads pop up out of the forest to listen. Inkume’s raised arm turns to the side. “Down that way you’ll find a few adventurers, resting in a big, old house,” he explains, stepping forward. “They’re drinking and having fun,” notes the Vampire Lord, lowering his hands behind his back as he strolls through the clearing that clearly belongs to the fairies, given that it’s littered with all sorts of odd objects used in old pranks. Old buckets, half-bitten bars of soap — single socks, stolen from laundry lines so that there would never be a matching pair. “But I think it’s not quite enough of a party.” He clasps his hands together. “- So!”

The fairies look at themselves, unsure, and then back at him.

“— Whoever causes the most mischief," he starts. "— Without killing anyone, can wish for whatever they want from me,” he offers, looking amongst them.

There isn’t too much of a response.

But his calm expression stays as it is. “…And whoever pulls off the worst one, or who doesn’t participate, is going to have to become a full-time, assistant live-in maid inside the castle. There will be no fun allowed.”

The trees empty immediately, like a swarm of bees pouring from a hive. Hundreds of fairies blast off, crying and screeching amongst themselves to get the others out of their way as they shoot into the night. Hundreds more come out from crevices and crannies he hadn’t even noticed them hiding in. The trees groan, bending up taller as the weight of thousands of tiny bodies is removed from them in a second flat.

He even sees the fairy from before, whom he had chased away from his crypt. They meet eyes.

— It knows that if it talks, he’ll come back for it.

As the fairies retreat, their panic echoing into the distance, the vampire and the boy remain watching as the forest returns to silence once more. They stand there for a time.

“...I don’t get it,” says Cvet quietly after a moment more, staring at Inkume. The boy lowers his bow, gently releasing the arrow back down he had readied.

“What?” asks Inkume, dusting his cloak off from some wayward fairy dust as he makes his way back.

“Why didn’t you just kill them?” asks Cvet. “You’re the Vampire Lord. They’re just some jerkish fairies.”

Inkume taps the side of his head with one hand as he pats Cvet’s shoulder, walking past the boy. “You have harsher instincts than I do,” explains Inkume. “Maybe try taking the softer route like your sister does sometime,” he encourages.

“That doesn’t seem to have worked out well for her,” notes Cvet dryly, looking after Inkume as he goes back to the castle to retire for the night now that he has completed one singular task, which is more than he signed up to do anyway. He never signed a contract for this job. The universe should be happy he's doing anything. Really, he feels like a real working-class hero.

Inkume waves over his shoulder, leaving. “Maybe you can do it better then,” he says and then points over to a bush without stopping or turning back. “There’s a rabbit in there. I can smell it.”

Cvet stops, watching the vampire leave and then lifts his bow, nocking the arrow again.

Sure enough, a moment later, a head pokes out of the underbrush and stares toward the boy.

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- [The Banshee’s Blood, Adventurers’ Guild] -

Warm light spills from the windows of the Banshee's Blood, a beacon of revelry cutting through the cool night air. Inside, the atmosphere hums with laughter and clinking mugs, the tang of ale mingling with the savory scent of roasted meat. Adventurers crowd the tables, sharing tales of glory and trouble in the Vampire Lord’s castle, their voices rising above the crackling fire in the hearth.

The night seems ordinary — a scene of camaraderie and indulgence like any other. But then, a subtle shift — a mug tips over, spilling ale across the table. Laughter erupts, a comrade’s misfortune met with good-natured teasing. But then, as the liquid spreads, more disturbances ripple through the room.

A chair suddenly collapses, sending its occupant sprawling. People howl, pointing at the flustered man who has to hear the same joke about his weight several times in a row. Nearby, a game is interrupted as the cards flutter through the air, caught in an unseen breeze, scattering their progress. The participants lunge across the table, each thinking the other was trying to cheat during the distraction. A fight breaks out between them, which then spans over to the group they crash into. People from a nearby table cheer on as the melee develops, until a plate of food mysteriously slides off the table, crashing to the floor with a clatter. The wizard who had paid his last money for that meal rises up, fire burning around his hands as he lunges into the mess of those he holds responsible.

Confusion spreads, the laughter now tinged with bewilderment.

In the rafters, the dark fairies flit unseen, their tiny forms darting through the shadows. They weave their magic with glee. The fairies’ antics escalate, a torrent of 'pranks' cascading through the guild. A candle flares brightly, sputtering wax onto a nearby cloak that sets on fire, causing the man wearing it to run around in panic. The ice sorceress in his party chases after him, spraying frozen magic everywhere to try and extinguish it, but he won’t stand long enough for her to hit him with it. The walls are painted with scorchmarks and icicles, people diving out of the way as spells fly, crashing through breaking windows.

All around the guild, the shutters slam closed as a roasted pig — puppeted by a group of fairies inside of it — walks across the room to the horror of many onlookers, including a man currently still trying to eat his dinner from the very same source.

Miss Schwester, the guild manager assigned by the Vampire Lord in secret, stands there behind the counter of the bar, her fingertips pressed together as she watches the anarchy unfold in her establishment.

“…Soon …” she whispers to herself ominously, her cold, dead eyes staring through from below her shadowed hood as an array of instruments, left by the group of bards here tonight, start playing by themselves to comedically accompany the blind, terrified movement of a trapped man who got his upper half stuck in an empty cauldron thrown at him and is now walking around like a lost turtle as he tries to remove it and constantly crashes into everything around him.

“…Soon I’m going to quit this dead-end job,” she mutters, and slaps a rag down on the counter as she almost seems to glide smoothly back into the inexplicable, absolute darkness behind her, with only her eyes shining out to watch the scene unfold.