- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
A gentle breeze rustles through the Blackflower Gardens, carrying the scent of damp soil and night-blooming blossoms. The air is cool and crisp, as if the darkness itself exhales a sigh of relief in tonight's unusual peace. It's gotten cold, so most adventurers have gone inside of the castle or stayed at the guild tonight. Movements of leaves in the wind stretch across the garden's winding paths, the moon casting a silver veil over the ground. Each step on the gravel crunches softly, a rhythmic sound that accompanies the creaking of an old wheelbarrow.
Vampire Lord Inkume pushes the wheelbarrow with a deliberate pace. Its occupant — the Albrūn — sits nestled among the petals of a giant flower inside of it, together with a heap of dirt, her body part plant, part girl. Her eyes, wide and curious, gaze at the world with a simplicity that belies a deeper wisdom. Her leaves flutter gently in the breeze. Inkume, ever the philosopher as he is, finds some relaxation and solace in these walks. It's good to get some fresh air now and then. As for her, the monster has her own issues, but she’s nice enough, and he repays the kindness of the bracelet she made him by helping her see the world now and then. When he finds a little time, he tries to take her ‘on a walk’, as it were.
— Hence the wheelbarrow.
He pauses, adjusts his grip on the handles, and glances at her, making sure she isn’t looking his way. “So, what do you think?” he asks as their conversation goes on, his voice a gravelly murmur in the night. “What do you believe it means to be alive?” asks the Vampire Lord.
It’s a deep question, but he finds he really enjoys her perspective on things. It’s very refreshing. He loves to ask her this sort of stuff.
She blinks slowly, her expression serene as she stares up and around — knowing better than to turn around and look back his way. She can’t handle eye contact, even if the two of them get along as friends now. It’s just her nature. “Absorb nutrients. Have a nice time,” she replies, nodding certainly, a giddiness clear in her voice.
Her answer is obscenely simple, delivered with an earnestness that makes Inkume smile despite himself. “Is that all? No desire for more?” he presses, curious and a little envious of her uncomplicated view of the grand scheme of things.
“More?” She tilts her head, leaves rustling. “Like what?”
Inkume shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Never mind.”
"Oh!" she says after a moment of quiet. "Finding water too!" she adds on, crossing her arms and sounding rather proud of herself.
He nods in agreement. "Water is important," agrees the Vampire Lord.
They continue along the path, the wheelbarrow rolling over roots and stones. Around them, the garden is a tapestry of shadows and light — black blood roses drinking in the moonlight, their petals shimmering like velvet. The air is filled with the sweet and musky smell of flowers, mingling with the dank scent of freshly turned soil. Crickets sing their monotonous tune, a backdrop to the whispered conversations of the night.
— He’s not sure if they’re evil crickets or just normal ones. The logistics of running a place like this are too broad for one man to really know it all.
The Albrūn is content on her mobile throne, swaying slightly with each bump and turn. Her thoughts are not complex, but they are satisfying. She’s very to the point.
He studies the garden — his retreat — and marvels at its beauty. It really has come along a long way since he first found it — overgrown and a mess. The same could be said for the castle as a whole, really. It's not just a bleak, death-filled hole anymore. It's a bleak death-filled home.
Statues of adventurers, frozen in time, stare unseeingly from their pedestals as they pass them by. He doesn’t remember having these made. Curious. It must just be some development someone else has undertaken — the gardener, maybe? “What about them?” he jokes, pointing past her side. “Do you think they ever consider what it means to be alive?” Inkume gestures toward the stone figures, their faces carved with expressions of determination and fear.
The Albrūn glances at the statues, her brow furrowing slightly. For a second, he thought she was going to freak out about them. But it seems like she can tell they aren’t real people. “No. They don’t absorb nutrients,” replies the monster with such a dull plainness and disinterest in her explanation that it's almost comical.
Inkume laughs, the sound echoing through the night. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps they don’t.”
Inkume breathes in deeply, savoring the cool air and the scent of blossoms. He wonders if perhaps he is overthinking things more often than not, if perhaps the Albrūn's understanding of life is not as simple as it appears. There is wisdom in simplicity, he realizes, and in this moment, he is grateful for her presence. It’s easy to get carried away with all of the Vampire Lord nonsense. 'Evil prophecy' this, 'bring about the Night that Never Ends' that — he does get stuck in that stuff more often than not, despite his best efforts. It was just last night when he almost ate a wild fairy. That would have been really bad for his public relations. Maybe that’s why he’s out here tonight. She helps him clear his head and remind himself what a bunch of nonsense this entire life is. This is just what he needs to zoom out a little again.
As they pass another row of statues of adventurers, Inkume stops and looks at them as he feels a pang of something — nostalgia, perhaps. He really loved reading stories about these sorts of folks when he was in his old life before all of this, but now he’s somehow found himself on the opposite end of the equation. It’s a little ironic. He’s never thought about that before, actually. How many nights did he stay at home reading Swordserer and dreaming about being some great hero? Now, here he is, being the bad guy instead.
The Albrūn stirs, her leaves catching the moonlight. “Are we done walking?” she asks, her voice a soft melody against the night.
“Not yet,” Inkume replies, pushing the wheelbarrow forward once more. “Not yet.”
“Yaaay~!” she cheers, clapping her hands together excitedly as they bump down the garden path.
— He’s made sure it’s clear for them to traverse. On ahead, an entire legion of hollow guards are trampling their way through — carefully, to avoid the flowers — and clearing out any remaining adventurers who would bother them and cause his companion to have one of her episodes.
The garden stretches out before them. Together, they continue their walk — a Vampire Lord and his monstrous company — one soul seeking understanding in a world that offers none, given what he is, and the other just looking for nice clumps of dirt that she would like to be planted in. Inkume finds a humorous peace in her presence.
And as they walk, the world falls away, leaving only the path ahead, the moon above, and the quiet companionship of a creature who knows exactly what it means to be alive — at least, for her.
“So, what do you think about war?” he asks, trying to find another deep hole to bury them into.
She thinks for a moment, with a long ‘hmm’. “Good, if it is for nutrients!” replies the plant girl, almost blissfully as they step past an adventurer’s corpse. From the side, a pair of metal gauntlets drag it away into the underbrush.
She really does know what she wants from life, doesn’t she?
Nearby, laughter fills the air. Inkume looks over to see the hanging tree he had encountered only just yesterday night, now replanted by the pond. Four fresh ropes hang from its branches, as do two bodies already.
— It has two wooden swings on its branches now, and Azalea and Cvet seem to be enjoying themselves. The hanging tree, while perplexed, seems to play along and sway its branches. It may possibly be trying to throw them off into the pond, or it might be trying to help the momentum of their swinging. Inkume isn't really sure right now. But it looks like a great time, so he'll leave it to them to figure out. It's rare to see the two of them acting like normal people together.
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- [The Haunted Forest Outside the Vampire Lord’s Castle] -
Goblins gather below the skeletal branches, their eyes gleaming with avarice. They babble in their guttural tongue — full of ambition and greed — while their minds turn with thoughts of treasure. Goblins love treasure. The Vampire Lord's castle is a beacon to them, promising trinkets and baubles in exchange for something as cheap as their loyalty. As they squabble over imagined riches, the forest seems to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable clash that happens every few minutes. As much as they love these sorts of fanciful prizes, they hate the idea of others having them. That includes other goblins of their own tribes. It leads to a lot of infighting, even when just idly daydreaming, as two goblins cannot collaberate while daydreaming about the same treasure, let alone possessing it.
~ [Goblin] ~
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A Goblin.
Goblins are simple, primitive humanoid monsters that average in smaller height and stature. Their skin ranges from grays, blues, to greens depending on their origin, and they have distinctly unique physical features that set their appearances apart from any other bipedal entity. The term ‘person’ can only be loosely applied to goblins, as they are sapient and intelligent creatures with senses of unique identity. However, they are not particularly bright or well-versed in long-term planning.
They make up for this, however, in undeniably masterful skills in survival. They have uniquely keen senses, allowing them to somehow manage to forage and live in even the most seemingly remote and desolate regions. This unique gift also makes them extremely talented at finding treasure, which is a favorite of all goblin cultures across the world for reasons we don’t understand.
While attempts have been made in the past to integrate goblins into collective society, they have made it clear that they choose to be considered as monsters rather than our ilk.
Type: Goblinoid Rank: D Common Drop: Goblin Tooth Rare Drop: Bloodline Goblin Trinket Bracelet
The forest broods beneath a sky heavy with clouds, its shadowed depths hiding secrets older than the stones of the castle looming beyond. A chill lingers in the air. The scent of pine and decay mingles with the unmistakable tang of magic — dark and alluring.
Their voices rise, sharp and discordant, echoing through the underbrush. “I want the shiny one!” one screeches, his grin wide and toothy.
“Bah! You can’t even count past your own fingers!” another retorts, jabbing a gnarled finger at his chest. "You'll get only dull trinkets."
A third goblin, smaller and craftier, snickers from the shadows. “You’ll get none if we keep arguing. The Vampire Lord won’t reward fools like you two.”
But the argument is cut short by a rustle in the leaves, a disturbance that sends a ripple of tension through the tribe. The goblins turn, eyes narrowed, as a group of wayward adventurers stumbles into their midst. The intruders — armored and armed — halt, their surprise quickly transforming into defensive readiness.
For the adventurers, the forest was meant as a shortcut. They had not expected to find a goblin congregation. While there were always a few wild goblins here or there in the forests of the region, there were never this many congregated so close to the castle.
Everything is quiet for a moment as everyone stares.
The goblins, however, are not in the mood for peace. The prospect of battle — a chance to prove their worth to the Vampire Lord and, more importantly, the adventurers' very shiny armor — sends them into a frenzy. They surge forward, a tide of chaotic, vaguely green energy, primitive weapons brandished, and voices raised in a collective war cry. The adventurers brace themselves, forming a defensive line. Steel clashes against crude iron, the sound reverberating through the forest. The air fills with the scent of metal and sweat. But the adventurers are outnumbered, and they know it. “Fall back!” the leader of the party shouts, his voice barely audible over the din.
As they retreat, the forest seems to conspire against them, branches snagging at their clothing and roots tripping their feet. Potions slip from their belts, forgotten in the scramble. The goblins pursue, driven by a fervent desire to claim victory and the spoils it promises. They vanish into the forest, leaving behind a trail of lost items — glinting in the moonlight like breadcrumbs.
Satisfied at having chased the intruders off, the goblins pause, gathering the spoils with greedy fingers. Potions and trinkets, small tokens of their triumph, are pocketed with glee. Although some smaller fights do break out as they argue about who gets what.
The path is now clear; the goblins resume their march towards the castle.
The dark Master calls to them still. His territory is a promise of rewards that outweigh the risk of them having come all this way. In the quiet that follows, the forest seems to settle once more.
The goblins' laughter fades into the distance.
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- [Inside the Vampire Lord’s Castle] -
An adventurer shifts uncomfortably, his expression one of increasing desperation. His companions mill about, their focus elsewhere, oblivious to his most desperate plight. The urge is undeniable, a pressing urgency that cannot be ignored.
He has to pee.
— Depending on one’s personality, and-or bravery, this is a real logistical challenge inside the Vampire Lord’s castle.
Silence hangs thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing from a nearby fountain.“Just go in the corner, mate,” suggests one of his comrades with a dismissive wave.
He grimaces, shaking his head. “Can't. You know I'm bladder shy.”
The other man sighs, holding his face. “Really? In a place like this?” he asks in exasperation.
He nods fervently. “Especially in a place like this.”
“Well, we don’t have time for your delicate sensibilities,” explains the other man from his group. He points over his shoulder to the party mages, who are sitting down and recovering their energy after a long battle against a wave of undead. “Figure it out and get back here before they’re done, or we’re going on without you.”
With a resigned sigh, the desperate man sets off alone, determined to find some semblance of privacy. He can’t go near the others; it just won’t work. And he doesn’t want to just… go on the floor. There are too many eyes — the paintings. Surely there is a washroom somewhere? His footsteps echo down the passage as he navigates the labyrinthine hallways.
Gilded frames hold portraits of long-dead aristocrats, their eyes seeming to follow him with silent judgment.
The adventurer's mind races, a cacophony of worries and discomfort. How much further? What if there isn't one? But then, salvation — a door set slightly ajar, its wood weathered with age. The promise of relief spurs him forward, and he pushes it open with a sense of triumph.
The room is cooled to a chill and the air is tinged with dampness. Stone walls enclose a small space, only furnishing a line of stalls. He strides hurriedly toward them, each step a countdown to blessed relief. A sense of calm descends as he nears his goal, the promise of true inner peace tantalizingly close.
Why does an evil vampire’s castle have such a facility even? It is a question a man in dire need, as he himself is, does not ask at times like these.
He reaches for a stall door, fingers brushing the cold metal handle. But as it swings open, his victory turns to horror.
Inside, a Gorgon medusa sits, her serpentine hair coiling with a life of its own. For a heartbeat, they lock eyes — two souls caught in a moment of pure shock.
The medusa's own surprised scream intertwines with his own, a wail of panic and disbelief as she awkwardly tries to slam the door shut, and he inadvertently blocks it. Given that his legs have begun changing into stone. Her gaze is a curse, a deadly enchantment that seizes him in its grip. The transformation is swift, an icy wave that sweeps through his body, solidifying flesh and bone into cold, unyielding rock.
[Status Applied: Petrification]
Within a span of a few seconds, the monster, trying to slam the stall door shut against what is now a statue, slowly calms down.
The medusa's eyes widen with realization, her scream fading into quietness as the frozen man stays there, stuck. She quickly slides past him, her serpent hair hissing softly, as the adventurer stands frozen — an eternal monument to his own misfortune. The room falls silent once more, the only sound being the soft slither of scales retreating into shadow as she goes somewhere else.
Alone in the gloom, the statue remains in its most unfortunate location — serving grim proof to the many unexpected dangers lurking within the castle's walls. The torches flicker, casting fleeting shadows over his stony visage, his expression forever caught between fear and surprise.
Somewhere in the room, a droplet of water from a leaky faucet splashes.
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- [The Castle Gardener] -
The skeletal gardener, cloaked in a black robe, moves with deliberate grace, his scythe resting like an old friend against his bony shoulder. He pauses, observing the Vampire Lord gently settling the Albrūn into her earthy bed, her leaves rustling with a contented sigh.
Inkume pats the soil around her roots, his fingers brushing away stray twigs. “Comfortable?” he murmurs, his gaze tender but never looking up past her petals at most.
— Eye contact is danger.
The Albrūn nods, her petals unfurling slightly in response. “Very. There are friendly worms here!” she says, delighted.
A soft smile tugs at the corners of Inkume’s lips. “Good.” He pats the ground a few times and then rises up. “I’ll see you next week,” says the Vampire Lord, wiping his hands on his cloak.
“Bye, Master!” calls the plant after him. “Eat nutrients!”
“I will,” he replies, lifting a hand back over his shoulder. He can hear the rustling of her arm as she waves goodbye.
The gardener watches, his empty gaze taking in the scene with a kind of silent approval. He steps forward once the Master is gone, the gravel crunching beneath his feet, and collects the now empty wheelbarrow. The metal creaks softly as he pushes it away, its journey through the garden a familiar ritual. The air is cool, the scent of rich soil mingling with the sweetness of the flowers, a balm to the senses.
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Time slips by, unnoticed and unhurried, until the gardener returns with a new task at hand.
This time, the wheelbarrow carries a different burden — a fresh stone statue, its features forever frozen in a moment of surprise and embarrassment. The adventurer’s face is a mask of panic, his trousers stained in a manner that speaks of his final, unfortunate act that has been immortalized. It's incredible how the mason managed to capture such intimate details, really.
The gardener maneuvers the wheelbarrow through the garden, navigating between the shadows and the moonlit paths. The many statues form a silent audience, each one a story etched in stone. He finds a spot among them, a place where the unfortunate adventurer can stand alongside those who came before him. With care, the gardener lifts the statue, setting it down among its peers. The stone clinks against stone, settling into place with a finality that echoes through the garden. He steps back, tilting his skull in silent contemplation, before returning to his duties. The garden always needs tending, its beauty dependent on the careful hands of its keeper. It's getting cold outside, so the plants will need a lot of attention.
As he moves away, the night remains alive with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a nightbird. The gardener’s scythe swings gently at his side, a quiet companion in the solitude of his work. From the underbrush, a pair of gleaming eyes watches. Goblins, drawn by curiosity and the scent of magic, peer out at the statue-filled garden, having now finally arrived at the castle.
The gardener, oblivious to the onlookers, continues his rounds, the moonlight casting long shadows that dance among the flowers. The air is still, and the night is peaceful in its own way.
Ever since the medusas arrived at the castle, he’s had many lovely new statues to decorate the gardens with.