- [The Throne Room] -
The ancient castle looms high above craggy peaks, shrouded in a cool, biting night air and drenched in an ominous anticipation of the night to come. In the vast, shadowed, hallowed halls of the forbidding stronghold, preparations for a grand event set for the steadily approaching blood-moon night unfold in a frenetic burst of activity. Silver webs stretch from arched stone beams as nimble spider girls scuttle about, meticulously weaving delicate strands of silken decoration over the throne and its surroundings. Woven patterns, intricate and refined, adorn every corner of the regal chamber; their gleaming surfaces catch the dim glow emanating from flickering candelabras mounted on black iron sconces. The rich aroma of damp stone, lingering herbs, and faint incense saturates the air, punctuated by the soft rustle of fabric and the gentle hum of magical energies in motion.
Outside, dark fairies arrive from the dense conifer woods, their eyes bright and curious, bearing treasures plucked from the forest — a scattering of glossy, strangely hued petals, droplets of dew still clinging to slender leaves, and curious roots that twist with secret designs.
Spirits drift purposefully along the winding corridors, their transparent forms gliding silently over timeworn flagstones, ensuring every nook is touched by the decorations of the celebration to come.
A ball is being organised — a dance.
Inkume had promised the doll Schaufenster there would be one, after all. And now with the arrival of the blood moon that he hopes to ignore, it seems like a fortuitous opportunity to host an event this regal and elegant. Inkume’s hope is that if the evening is filled with something so simple as drinking and dancing, where everyone is stuck together, fate won’t have the opportunity to intervene anywhere and cause him to begin the ritual to bring about the ever-ominous ‘Night that Never Ends’ — trademark, copyright, and patent-pending.
In the midst of this carefully orchestrated chaos, three lesser vampires, slender, elegant, and also extremely haggard from being overworked by Fi-Fi, stand in attentive admiration before the Vampire Lord. Seated on a high throne wrought from dark metal and intricately carved stone, Inkume exudes an effortless magnetism, his regal bearing accentuated by eyes of deep crimson velvet. His gaze, reminiscent of the light of burning rubies — as those three would say — glimmer with power. The bottle in his hand swirls with ruby liquid.
In reality, he’s trying to hide the feeling of being dead inside and just wanting to take it easy for a change.
[Experience Points Gained] You have drunk the blood of a forgetful witch! You don't recall if you've had it before. It’s magical properties are wildly potent.
*★✧+- [LEVEL UP!] -+✧★* You are now level 901!
NEW ABILITY [Like a Glove] Passive Ability • In order to surprise and dislodge your enemy from their psychological footing, you are able to comfortably wear any pair of gloves, no matter their size.
The lesser vampires, with charged expressions wrought with awe and impatience, timidly inquire about the source of his immense might.
“Master, please — how did you come by such power?” one asks, his voice trembling with a mix of reverence and youthful curiosity. He’s rather lanky. His words, mundane in tone yet loaded with the weight of unspoken devotion, echo faintly against the chamber’s cold stone.
It would be better if they didn’t know. So he’s just going to have to talk the talk, as always.
Inkume’s dark gaze sweeps over them, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Do not burden your thoughts with trivial details,” he intones, his voice smooth and measured as he plays his part. “There is work to be done tonight — critical preparations that demand your focus.” He looks at them. “I’m counting on you to do your best,” notes the Vampire Lord, resting his head on his fist as he swirls the blood within his other hand. “Please me, and maybe I’ll show you a trick or two.”
The truth is, he was given the job by nepotism and luck. But they don’t need to know that. As far as they know, he’s an ancient, elder creature with the death of some million screaming souls on his hands.
Fi-Fi, nearby, shoots a knowing glance over his shoulder his way with a smirk. She knows the truth. If it wasn’t for the fact that he likes her, she’d be dead already. He quickly dismisses her with an idle waving of his fingers. She rolls her eyes, holding down a laugh, as she and Snatch continue their practice.
The three lesser vampires nod in simultaneous agreement, their very misplaced expressions softening into very misplaced adoration. The two men run off to help the undead prepare for the event. The girl spares a second to curtsy and then quickly runs to help organize a troop of hollow armors, who are trying to unfold an unfathomably large, massive cloth banner that spans across the entire stretch of a wall of the room. Depicted on it is an ornately woven scene of himself.
Inkume nods in approval. The seamstresses got his perfectly chiseled chin just right.
Off to one side, near a carved pillar, the black-haired maid Fi-Fi works with quiet merriment as she practices a gentle, almost whimsical dance. Her partner, Snatch — the diminutive ghost with what appears to be a weathered, spectral face as she does her best to not look mortified — floats a few inches off the ground, holding Fi-Fi’s hands in a clumsy yet endearing embrace. Of course, Snatch, being of small stature and, well, a ghost, doesn’t actually reach the floor. Snatch is floating in midair, sort of swaying around as Fi-Fi swings her like a miner’s wife swinging a sack of tubers when her husband comes home drunk and late again after her previous final warning on the matter. Their movements, although lacking in refined grace, revel in simplicity and genuine fond amusement. Fi-Fi’s laughter rings softly despite the absence of sound from her baleful companion, and for a fleeting moment, the oppressive darkness of the castle dissolves. How fun. Fi-Fi is trying to teach Snatch how to dance at the ghost’s request because she wanted to dance with Inkume during the event but didn’t actually know how.
Snatch, ever-nervous, looks unusually deeply unsettled and is extremely sweaty. Inkume isn’t sure if it’s because she’s trying to dance in public and dying inside because of that, or because of her and Fi-Fi’s last encounter.
He’s glad to see they’re finally getting along, though. Everyone used to fight so much, but a new peace has come over the castle these nights.
Across the marble expanse of the throne room, the living doll Schaufenster sits in silent resignation on Azalea’s lap, just watching. This entire event and spectacle is explicitly for her, but her porcelain features are nonetheless impassive, her eyes downcast as she drifts in quiet calmness. In gentle company, the elven priestess Azalea smiles. “I think you can also wear it like this,” says Azalea, playing with the doll’s hair and pinching it into a ponytail. “You have such pretty cheeks,” she explains gleefully, running a finger over the doll’s porcelain face contours. “This shows them more.”
“...I don’t like it like that,” replies Schaufenster quietly. Azalea lets the hair go, and it falls back over the sides of her face, covering most of it.
“Hmm,” notes the priestess, thinking. “Ah! Well, what about this?” she asks and then softly pulls the hair upward into a bun. A few loose bangs fall forward over Schaufenster’s forehead. “It’s very elegant!” says the elf, eagerly, as she grabs a small mirror and shows it to the living doll. Azalea sighs. “You’re so pretty,” says the priestess, hugging the doll and smushing her face against the cold, porcelain cheek. “I wish I had a doll like you growing up.”
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Schaufenster stares blankly, looking into the mirror at the sight of the laughing priestess who is playing with her. “…I suppose it is acceptable,” she notes placidly.
“Aren’t you too old to be playing with dolls, Azalea?” asks a voice from the side, Cvet.
The two of them look his way. “Aren’t you at the age where you should have a wife, young man?” asks Schaufenster dryly. Azalea snorts, holding down a sudden laugh, and Cvet stiffens up.
He lifts his head, rolling his eyes. “…As if I have time for that, after babysitting her every day forever,” says the boy, nodding to his sister as he quickly walks off.
“That was pretty mean,” says Azalea, nonetheless unable to hide that she did think it was a little funny seeing her stubborn-headed brother get flustered.
Schaufenster closes her eyes. “You may continue brushing my hair, servant girl,” is all that the doll says, reaching over and grabbing a little wooden brush for Azalea to use.
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- [Agnis and Bark] -
Beyond the towering walls of the throne room, the atmosphere shifts within the castle’s inner courtyard — a stark, open expanse bathed in a haunting moonlit glow. Here, a different kind of dance unfolds. In the makeshift arena marked by worn stone and encroaching overgrowth from nearby gardens, the bunny-vildt knight Agnis faces off against the towering wolf goddess, Bark.
They’re sparring. In two different ways, only one is in body.
Agnis stands nimble and alert, her rabbit-like ears twitching with focus and determination. Her lithe but potent frame moves with a balanced ferocity, her bare fists the sole weapons in a duel heavy with ritual significance for the both of them. Opposite her, Bark’s colossal form exudes its usual raw strength. Below the coat of glossy, well-washed fluff that is much less knotted and tangled than it used to be is a rippling mass of muscle and sinew. She’s in much better shape these days, her strength starting to revive after centuries of magical stagnation. She doesn’t have worshipers to grant her power anymore, like she used to. Instead, she draws passive, ambient energy from the castle like any other creature here. The difference is that, given her status and capabilities, she draws a much larger amount of it into herself than any random, simple monster.
Agnis, panting and focused, breaks the rapid rhythm of heavy strikes and calculated parries with hesitant inquiry as they continue their inquiry of another mid-duel. “And what will you do if Inkume reveals a deeper, darker nature?” she asks Bark, as she asks everyone here, her voice betraying an undercurrent of worry. The words hang in the air, crisp as the cold breath of a mountain wind.
Bark pauses, the massive wolf goddess’s amber eyes narrowing in deference and anger. “The Master is pure of heart,” the behemoth responds in a low, guttural tone that vibrates with certainty. With a twist of her powerful leg, getting ready for a new lunge, Bark continues. “Even if he was a monster, then I would gladly stand by his side.” The tension in their duel yields to a solemn camaraderie mixed with an undercurrent of fear.
Agnis is always trying to size up the situation in the castle. Honestly, she’s not sure herself if there’s a point anymore. Vampire Lord Inkume seems to have ‘won,’ if such a statement is even possible given the lack of qualifying criteria. But she alone certainly isn’t strong enough to stop him by a long shot these nights, and nobody else in the castle would dare to even want to. They love and adore him. And, honestly, Agnis would be lying if she thought she wasn’t under his spell herself. Inkume saved her from a life of torment. He’s kind, strong, generous, protective, and just.
How could a knight of people not find those exact qualities very admirable?
— If not for the whole matter of him being the Vampire Lord and it being her sacred religious duty to stop him, should the time ever come. But that should imply in theory to Azalea too, but the priestess seems to have found herself content with her hopes of converting Inkume to the faith, rather than thinking he might have to be destroyed one day.
Agnis nods wordlessly, her gaze deep with both resolve and caution. There is a pause — a moment of shared breath between combatants — before they resume their evenly matched struggle. The cold wind, carrying hints of pine and iron, dances around them, and every clashing blow resonates as a reminder of the potential for betrayal and ruin. Right now, this is just a sparring match. But one day, one night, maybe this fight will be for real.
Both of them know, for different reasons, how dangerous it would be if a being as powerful as Vampire Lord Inkume were to turn on the world.
But at this point, it’s just too late, isn’t it?
If the Vampire Lord were to begin his dark ritual, no power on Heaven or the world below could stand against him — not with blade, not with spirit, and not with siege. Perhaps the last weapon remaining is that of the heart, to stay near him where he is most vulnerable as Azalea has planned, in order to guide his spirit toward brighter places. But that’s a dangerous game to play, because his charms are hard to resist, and it might just end up that he becomes the one to guide them wayward.
Agnis and Bark press against each other, the knight’s boots carving a groove into the ground as she remains steadfast, pressing back against the heavy weight of the giant wolf that has slammed into her.
There is an unsettled score from their very first meeting, when Agnis pretty handily defeated the wolf goddess. She can tell that the matter isn’t forgotten by the way Bark is coming at her. The wolf has something to prove.
But it doesn’t seem to be for herself. Agnis can see that in her eyes.
And it looks like she’s not the only one who has this idea, because Agnis has been seeing this expression more often lately around the castle.
Troubling times are coming, one way or another.
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- [Dorime, the Hero] -
In the quiet outskirts beyond the mountain’s crags, there is a lonely forest path where the summoned hero Dorime trudges onward all by herself. Days of ceaseless walking have left her weary and ragged. Her once-polished armor is scuffed and burdened with patches of dirt and its inner lining with stains from her sweat. Each step is a struggle against fatigue and hunger, as the forest around her is dense and impenetrable. The subdued odor of moss, damp wood, and decaying leaves fills the air, thick with peril and possibly — very likely — just a little bit of mold.
She sneezes.
Finally, nearing the edge of a once-distant ridge, Dorime halts before a sprawling, gnarled stump.
She sinks onto its timeworn surface, momentarily at rare peace amid the oppressive solitude of the dark forest hills. She’s never been scared of forests before, but of course, in her old life, the worst thing she had to worry about were… wolves, bears, and maybe warthogs. These are perfectly legitimate things to be scared of, but of course, the thought never really occurred to her.
Now, she’s in a forest where there are likely wolves, bears, and warthogs, but also goblins and slimes; it’s somehow all much scarier. She can’t make it make sense.
The cool night air fails to soothe the sting of exhaustion, and her thoughts spin in confused fragments. Her ordained mission’s goal — to defeat the great Vampire Lord — has grown murky with the passage of interminable days, punctuated by passing fear and idle procrastination. She’s spent a lot of time goofing off back in the church. Embarrassment and relief mingle in her mind; no soul has witnessed her pitiful state in the seclusion of these woods.
“…What the hell am I even doing out here?” asks the lone wanderer in the night, looking around herself.
This blows.
She’s so hungry. She lost her supplies somewhere along the way, and now she’s been scavenging weird berries and fruits in the woods — which she has come to regret more than once already. She’s already stopped wearing most of her armor because it’s heavy, and most of it is just tied to her pack, rattling along the way. Because of her abilities, her armor feels feather light when she’s wearing it, but it’s still bulky and hard to walk in.
She needs a better plan than this. What the hell is she doing out here? She’s going to die. This is stupid; she’s stupid. Why did she even go out this way, instead of just… wandering some other direction, toward some other city where she could have found an easier life by pretending to be somebody else? Noo~, she had to go out toward the horrific, evil vampire castle in the distant back-ass end of the world and play the hero.
Fuck’s sake.
In a desperate bid to reclaim some shred of dignity, Dorime produces a well-worn copy of her favored fantasy book, Swordserer, from a pouch near her side. Her eyes scan the familiar script, and slowly, a spark of inspiration returns to her troubled heart.
She’s in too deep. There’s only one thing left to do.
She’s just going to do exactly what she had planned before, except she’ll modify her strategy a little bit.
The absurdity of her new plan does not escape her; yet it glows with the promise of a new persona that is both cool and resolute — a character drawn from the pages of the tale she clutches. Someone who is better than her. With renewed determination, Dorime rises unsteadily to her feet and begins to move toward the silhouetted fortress in the distance, her ragged breath merging with the night air and her resolve forming even amid bitterness.
Metal clanks behind her as she walks. It looks like she'll be there shortly.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but her original mission is to defeat the Vampire Lord. She has no idea how that’s going to be possible, because she has done nothing but slack off for weeks now. But he — the Vampire Lord — doesn’t need to know that.
So she’ll march right up into the Vampire Lord’s castle, use her absurd, fully unearned cosmic powers to defeat his lesser minions, and then threaten him with total destruction into allowing her a life of endless lavish luxury in his castle instead! Dorime closes the book, clapping its pages together excitedly. She’ll make him her eternal servant or something. Quietly, she hopes that the Vampire Lord is mysteriously dark and handsome. She’s read otome novels just like this before, where the kind, beautiful, all-powerful heroine — like herself — subjugates the villain because she’s too great and merciful to want to kill him.
Convinced that this is a perfect plan, Dorime goes and starts walking toward the castle on the horizon, reading her book as she walks in the dark, using her perfect eyes to see the words even now at night.
— She runs into a tree.