- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
He stands at the stable’s wide threshold, running a gloved hand against the newly fitted stone where fresh mortar glistens in the lamplight. There is no great majesty in this moment, no distant observer on a towering balcony, no epic fanfare. This is simply him finishing a night’s work. The tilt of his head suggests satisfaction, though his crimson eyes remain cold in their glow. His presence alone casts a certain hush over the stable’s interior, across the stalls and the straw-laden floor that is still strewn with the remnants of old planks and splinters.
In recent nights, he has found the stable in disrepair next to the guardsmens’ barracks, an eyesore among the rest of the castle’s improvements. For the continued might of his undead legion and for his personal sense of order, he has repaired it now.
[{Restored} The Stable]
{Anqa Spawning Zone} A large stable complex, designed to accommodate the anqas used in and around the castle by its defensive and work forces.
Room Effects:
• Allows [Hollow Guardsmen] to ride [Anqas], acting as a significant force multiplier in the castle's exterior areas.
This area is currently active! Monsters are currently spawning here!
These efforts will allow his strictly defensive forces to defensively project offensive power outward at a moment’s notice — for peaceful, defensive purposes only, of course. As one does.
The night breathes a chill that carries the faint smell of pine from the distant forest. The castle garden’s open archways glow with scattered torches, though their flames barely light, let alone warm the air. The sky is obscured by gathering clouds, illuminated by a moon’s pale silver. The stone of the floors and walls is damp from the mountain’s perpetual winds. Winged shapes occasionally blot out the dim glow high above — the castle's gargoyles, circling on watch. Everything is quiet enough to hear distant drops of moisture plip-plopping against aged stone, in between the sporadic shriek of a crow on the parapets.
He releases a short exhale, turning on his heel. Within moments, the hollow guardsmen, each armored suit possessed by undead will, come forward. A faint rattling echoes from within their empty shells. They line up in neat formation. Their movements are synchronous, a single clang repeated from one suit of armor to the next. Out of the gloom in the rear of the stable, black-feathered anqas step forth. They are manifested into the world, the same as any of his other creatures. Each is tall enough to match a man at full height, sporting long, drooping plumage and severe beaks curving downward with razor edges. They scratch at the ground with scaled talons. The Vampire Lord flicks his gaze along the formation, eyes glinting with his typical aloof scrutiny.
“Mount up, boys,” he orders. His voice is quiet yet it resonates.
Anqas grunt, shaking their long feathers. Several of the hollow guardsmen climb astride them, each undead shell displaying neither haste nor uncertainty. The Vampire Lord watches as row upon row of black avian shapes shift in place, predatory eyes scanning the stable. One anqa scuffs its beak on a trough, sending straw and splinters aside. Another ruffles its midnight plumes, revealing a harness of dark metal strapped to its chest. Within half a minute, a fully mounted legion stands there, ready to bring his extremely peaceful will and intentions to the world.
— By force.
A guard stands at a side door, presumably a subordinate with more mundane tasks than the other hollow armors. That guard pushes the door open and steps clear. The Vampire Lord swings one hand outward, and the stable’s main gates groan, letting in the brisk, cold wind.
When the troop moves out, there is no war cry.
They drift forward in steady steps, anqas carrying those faceless riders past the Vampire Lord. He stands to the side, giving only a curt nod of acknowledgment to the lead suit of armor; his scarf is tattered, and for some reason, he’s covered in feathers and gunk. It looks like he’s been rolling around in a chicken coop. But Inkume has learned not to question these things. It is what it is.
He follows them with his gaze all the way out — into the courtyard, under the flickering red torches, across the threshold. The riders pass along the castle’s open grounds, where the tall, warped gates stand wide, ever since the last repairs. From that vantage, the horizon reveals a looming forest, a patch of black needles and gnarled branches.
As though sensing their arrival, a group of eager adventurers with exceptionally bad timing — brandishing torches — attempts an assault on the main portcullis.
A blown horn, followed by a screeching call of the anqas signals the start of the carnage.
A wave of panic ripples among those outsiders waiting in ambush; they scramble the instant they see the unstoppable cavalry. Swords sing out, but the hollow guardsmen run them down effortlessly, the anqas jumping to close the distance with shocking speed. Undead riders raise ominous polearms, slicing through the crowd with swift finality. Some daring adventurers try to fight back, but they are outmatched by the unholy coordination of those empty helmets and the monstrous birds. Cries echo in the darkness, metal on metal.
Within a minute, the fight is over.
A final shriek ends it all, followed by a heavy thump.
“Well, damn,” mutters Inkume to himself, watching the mess from afar. “Brutal.” The Vampire Lord stands upon the threshold, arms crossed, evaluating the scene. He then quietly flashes a thumbs-up to the undead champion, who lifts up the banner of the castle high as they ride.
The riders gather at the edge of the courtyard. The forest gates open further under a mechanical chain’s crank. The hollow guardsmen urge their anqas forward. Hollow visors turn, as though confirming that they have permission to continue.
He inclines his head a fraction, wordlessly granting it.
Without pause, the troop gallops forward. Forest shadows swallow them up. Behind them, the grounds are left littered with the bodies of adventurers who made one final attempt on his cursed fortress and, also, private luxury estate in the mountains. It’s a matter of perspective, really.
Inkume heads back to the castle. That should be enough to buy him at least one quiet night. Hwa-Young has invited everyone for tea tonight, so he’s looking forward to that. Although it will be a little cramped in her hut, especially with Bark. Oh well.
The Vampire Lord sniffs the air, looking behind himself.
There’s an adventurer hiding in the nearby underbrush. Oh well, he can’t be bothered. Tonight’s his night off.
“Not my problem,” says Inkume to the night, waving his hand into the air as he walks off.
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- [Neerbi, the Thief] -
It is a moment earlier, as the mounted legion exits through grounds from the castle’s Blackflower Gardens.
A single sheep stands in a lonely pen, chewing on some wild grass. Its pale wool appears oddly clean, an out-of-place sight amid the gloom. The anqas grunt in annoyance, but the hollow guardsmen show no reaction. They pass by while the sheep lifts its head, calmly gazing at the entire passing legion.
In that instance, the sheep’s unassuming eyes shift, trailing after every undead rider yet not moving from its spot. Hard, methodical footsteps echo. The last anqa rider brandishes a jagged lance, pausing for a breath. Then the final rider pushes onward, following the group.
Silence drapes over the place once more.
The sheep quietly chews, then stops. Its chin lifts. Hiding in the corner behind the low stall is a figure clad in a tattered cloak. She has been crouched there, pressing herself low to remain unseen. The aura of dread around here is unmistakable. She is a thief by trade, and from the trembling in her shoulders, it is clear she nearly got caught.
That was the Vampire Lord himself. That was close. She would have been done for if he saw her.
The thief peeks out, slowly moving around the pen fence. The sheep’s dark eyes fix on her. Her heart jumps, but she remains still, returning its stare. Some unspoken tension passes between them. Neither moves. Then she gives a tiny nod, acknowledging an odd mutual understanding.
The sheep chews. Ominously.
Once certain the riders have all left, she rises, stumbles over the fence, and runs to the far side of the garden. Flowers, exuding a faint floral odor tinged with an acrid undertone, brush her legs. These black petals glisten with moisture under a distant moonbeam. She does not linger to smell their perfume, however.
Neerbi creeps around a corner, crossing a yard where battered statues of bestial forms line neglected walkways. At the foot of a warped, mossy gutter, she spots a half-broken window. The glass had fractured some time ago; repairs are incomplete. She quickly climbs, seizing an iron bar and wiggling through with surprising dexterity. Her boots scuff the sill. She enters the castle interior and then pulls out a journal, making some quick scratches.
Neerbi’s Log: Window access by sheep. Low defenses. Viable exit?
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
She slides her small, leather-bound journal into a pouch. It is scuffed, and the binding is close to tearing. She keeps it near anyway. She has come for treasure or anything that might yield a profit. This place’s rumored darkness matters little in the face of her ambition. Treasure is good, but so is information. Anything can be sold if you find the right person.
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Inside, the corridor is dim. Braziers line random intervals, each flickering with greenish flames. Unsteady lumps of melted wax and old candelabras cling to the walls among archaic weapon displays. Neerbi’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of these items. She wonders if they are valuable. But she refocuses. Weapons are too heavy and cumbersome. She can take maybe one or two swords at most before her escape becomes unviable. Compared to a bag full of gems or coins or a journal full of secrets, they’re a bad value-to-weight ratio investment of her time.
Efficiency is key for a good thief.
She hears distant footfalls. Quiet, scraping steps. Something drags along the floor.
Neerbi presses herself behind a tall, robed statue, letting her breathing slow with a simple thief-class ability until it is nearly silent.
{Neerbi} has used: [Deadend Presence] • Significantly reduces all bodily noises, smells, and auras to a minimal level for a duration of seconds equal to your {LEVEL}.
Looming shapes pass by. Hollow guardsmen accompanied by wolves. The thief's heart pounds. She sees the animals’ heads snap left and right, muzzle up, sniffing. Drips of drool slip between jagged teeth. They’re using them as hounds to help scour the castle. She’s not the first person to try sneaking in here, that’s for sure.
“Damn,” she whispers to herself. Her gaze flits across. The wolves appear restive, as though eager to surge ahead. Their senses are powerful, more so than some guard dogs', and even with her dampening, they can still smell something is off. Although they haven’t fully understood her presence yet.
The hollow knights remain calm in movement, weapons clanking softly. Her legs are tense, but she stays motionless.
A patrolling guard slows. Its wolf halts, muzzle raised, nose pointing in her direction. The thief’s eyes widen. Her gut twists in panic. She tries not to move, but the wolf has undoubtedly caught her scent now. Quietly, it pads nearer to her statue, not sure what it is that it smells. The patrol watches it and then walks after the beast, drawing their black swords.
She remains pinned behind the carved figure, which depicts a grim scene of some hooded being. Another step. She clenches her jaw, silently cursing fate. The wolf appears around the statue, sniffing, her eyes locking onto the corner of her cloak.
Fate intervenes.
In the next instant, a clamoring sound echoes from the next corridor. Another figure dropping something? Maybe a clumsy skeleton caretaker. The wolf’s ears perk up, and it darts off toward the new noise The guards run after it.
The thief exhales in relief, pressing her gloved hand over her hammering heart that restores to its normal, adrenaline-filled surge as her ability wanes. She raises a brow at the small tuft of fur left behind on the floor and quickly makes a note in her journal.
Neerbi’s Log: Wolves patrolling inner corridors. Use scent-covering perfumes or bait.
She sets off again, hugging walls. Her boots step on a gritty combination of broken stone chips and fragments of leftover debris from parts of the castle still in ruin. She slides behind a pillar, wincing as a swirl of dust stings her eyes. Then she picks up her pace, weaving from one shadow to another.
The thief has worked with a covert network in the nearby village, hearing rumor after rumor of lost magic locked away in this hush-shrouded fortress. She snuck in determined to record every hidden corner, every cryptic rune, every item of surpassing value. If she can secure even one major find, she might rise out of her humble life of petty thievery.
Neerbi creeps down a spiraling staircase, occasionally brushing spiderwebs. Her eyes flick up at the vaulted ceiling. Torn banners sway in the draft from beyond a broken door with a sign that says ‘library’. She jots hasty notes in her battered little journal.
Neerbi’s Log: Castle has a library, as reported. Possible location of rare spell tomes? Collect information, sell to church and academies.
Then she slaps the book shut and moves on.
Down a lengthy corridor, she finally stops upon hearing roars of disquiet. She yanks herself against a spiked column. A patrolling group of undead stands far ahead, scanning the hallway. She risks a glance, noticing wolves among them again. Her breath holds. She checks the alternate direction.
A grate protrudes from the wall nearby. The metal bars appear damaged.
With nimble hands, she tugs it open, timely enough to slip inside before a wolf lifts its muzzle. She slides into the cramped interior behind the walls, mouth twisting in distaste at the stench of mildew that fills the tight shaft.
The grate quietly clinks shut behind her.
There’s very little space, so she crawls forward on hands and knees. The walls smell of rotting mortar. The floor is musty, with old nails and the occasional roach scurrying around. A rat shoots past her, snatching a roach right off the wall, and then scurries below the corner gap under her body and out past her legs.
Neerbi’s Log: Inner walls are traversable via duct. Shortcut? Dirty. Do not wear exposing clothes.
She curses under her breath each time her knees connect with something sharp. She passes a grate, aware that the guards beyond are milling about. But they soon pass. The wolves don’t even stop this time. Her scent is likely clouded by the funk inside of this stone tube she’s crawling through. It smells like she’s crawling around with a corpse in here.
No time to rest.
Neerbi moves deeper inside, eventually coming upon a tiny vent overhead, blocked by thin slats. She tilts her face upward. Through that vantage, she sees a large bed in a chamber. The bed is human-sized, draped in what must be velvet covers. But lying upon it’s edge is not a person but a fairy.
The thief tenses, perplexed. Is this some kind of safe room? The castle was reported to have a few of them, but this fairy doesn’t look like an adventurer. She looks more like a patient in a field monestary.
A quiet scratching fills the air.
Neerbi’s Log: Saferoom, accessible via crawlspace. Dangerous? What if a monster uses crawlspace?
The fairy appears unsettled, muttering under her breath in frantic bursts. Her wings hang at odd angles, trembling and flicking with frantic energy. The poor creature’s eyes dart left and right, as though seeing shadows. She bites her thumbnail. Then she curls inward, rolling on the bed.
The thief remains absolutely still. She’s not sure if the fairy is dangerous or quite insane. She listens as the fairy’s voice climbs in desperation. “There’s something… it’s in the walls… it’s in the cracks… it’s -” The next words devolve into a disordered stream of nonsense.
Looking behind, the thief hears a quiet tap from somewhere in the narrow crawlspace.
With a cold pinch of worry, she senses she is not alone. She steels herself, twisting around as best she can. The darkness in the cramped passage seems to have shape. Some intangible presence grips her ankle, yanking her.
She tries to scream, but it only comes out as a short, choked gasp. Her arms flail, and her journal tumbles out of her bag. It slips through the gaps of the grate.
She disappears into the deeper black, suppressed by an unexplainable grip. The last echo of her voice is smothered.
The little journal hits the floor in the room below, flipping open to reveal her scrawls. The fairy doesn’t notice, still lost in her mania. The lantern lights flicker.
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- [The Hollow Riders] -
Meanwhile, out in the forest beyond the castle gates, the hollow guardsmen continue their rampage. They scatter any pockets of would-be attackers who still linger. The menacing anqas hop over fallen trees, kicking up sharp, broken twigs. Their black feathers shimmer in brief glimpses of moonlight. The faceless suits of armor guide them with mechanical precision.
Any unfortunate souls hidden among the old trunks and brambles are discovered. Screams ring out, swiftly silenced.
Before long, the hollow cavalry circles back, returning to the castle. Those battered armor suits, each clutching broken weapons or absent any at all, cross the threshold again. The portcullis clangs shut behind them, chains groaning. Drips of sticky gore cling to the anqas’ talons. One anqa screeches at a lesser undead minion that approaches, trying to remove bits of flesh caught in its harness. The skeleton rears back to avoid getting pecked.
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- [Schaufenster, the Doll] -
Within the castle’s upper sections, an old door creaks open.
A corridor lit by a single glowing chandelier reveals tapestries across one wall. The rest of the walls is filled with mirrors from start to finish, leading up to one giant one at the very end. But dotted between them are portraits of people — they show partial images of an ancient lineage.
One figure on them is obviously the current Vampire Lord’s predecessor.
Holding herself in the dark, Schaufenster sits on the ground in front of a mirror, looking up at it, and it looks down at her.
A faint echo resonates — someone calling for help, or maybe the final breath of yet another doomed invader. She halts, scanning the gloom.
The corridor is empty. Just the sound of dripping water from a nearby fountain. It’s quiet again.
Wavering flickers of flame on the torches illuminate the room, and she looks back at the portrait.
A single line of red ink runs down the canvas.
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- [Sanftes, the Fairy] -
The little grimoire of the thief lies open on the floor.
No sound emerges from the vents overhead. The frantic fairy on the bed has calmed somewhat, though she stares at the walls still, biting her lip. She mumbles, “Something was in… something… in the- It…”
She wrings her hands, raspy laughs escaping her. Then her eyes dart to the door. She expects someone to burst in. Her entire body clenches up.
At that moment, the door slowly squeaks open.
Her eyes bulge in alarm. She quickly hides under the massive, human-sized blankets.
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- [The Castle] -
All across the castle, doors close with a slam. The wind outside howls. The final torch in the courtyard sizzles out in a trail of smoke.
A hush settles over the entire stronghold, broken only by the occasional footstep of a caretaker, the shuffle of a skeleton, or the distant growl of a wolf from an upper corridor — whose hairs all stand on end.
Anyone peering in from the outside might see the fire-illuminated dark fortress rising high against the jagged mountains suddenly turn black, a massive silhouette pricked with towers that jut out like the broken teeth of a beast’s jagged maw.
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- [The Sheep] -
Outside, near the Blackflower pen, the sheep stands quietly. Somehow, it appears almost too serene. Its mouth moves methodically, chewing the leftover grass. Then it glances up at the distant keep, where a black, formless shape flickers across a high window — distinct in its presence from the normal darkness because of its utter voidly emptiness that is just a tone less than anything else present in the night.
The sheep quietly resumes its meal.
Thunder rumbles high in the mountains.