Olyver, the Tavern owner and barkeep of Foolish Goat Tavern, had dedicated years to his establishment within the walls of Mandoor city. His Tavern, over time, had gained the most renown, becoming the go-to spot for visitors who sought warmth and camaraderie. The secret to his success lay in the inviting ambiance that wrapped around people like a comforting embrace, making them choose his Tavern before exploring others in the city.

However, the current state of the tavern was far from warm-hearted and inviting. Blood stained the bar and floor, a severed hand lying in grotesque contrast. In the early hours, the absence of patrons was conspicuous, as people seldom ventured to the Tavern at this time of the hour.

Olyver cowered beneath the bar, trembling with fear. His once-piercing eyes, now bloodied and blind, robbed him of sight, rendering everything in darkness.

Olyver, startled by a rustle, anxiously questioned, "Who is there!?"

Joruk's voice cut through the tension, "It is me, Joruk." He was a mercenary familiar to Olyver. "How are you?" The mercenary added, concerned.

The mercenary Joruk was a savage kin, yet he was quite polite for his kind... perhaps a quirk of his own he would show to people he liked or was just drunk.

"Hurting, blind, but breathing," Olyver replied, reaching out, his hand searching in the darkness.

Joruk reassured, "Come, let me help you," and extended a guiding hand, assisting Olyver to stand amidst the aftermath.

Olyver inquired anxiously, "How is your hand?" His mind replayed the disturbing events involving a vaguely old man who had attacked them, specifically severing Joruk's right hand and then assaulting him with pebbles.

Joruk's response carried a weight of dread, "He... he is still here..."

Olyver, overcome with fear, shuddered, "Oh divines!" He strained to look around, imagining the old man lurking in every corner.

Joruk, succumbing to madness, declared, "He is here! He lives in each of us! I remember now, the Enderman, the Enderman— Behold the creature, the Enderman," shivering uncontrollably.

Olyver, deeply concerned, questioned, "Joruk? What happened to you?! Have you gone mad!"

Unbeknownst to Olyver, an unsettling transformation had taken hold of Joruk. Against all logic, Joruk's right stump ceased bleeding and supernaturally healed, a stark contrast to the lifeless hand lying on the floor.

And then... Small fangs protruded from Joruk's lips, an eerie alteration. Suddenly, fueled by an inexplicable bloodthirst, Joruk leaped at Olyver, catching him off guard with the unexpected ferocity of the attack.

Olyver, in a desperate struggle, attempted to fight back against the relentless assault, but his efforts proved futile. Joruk, the once mercenary, now turned vampire, sank his fangs into Olyver's neck, initiating a chilling process as the lifeblood began to drain away. Olyver's cries for mercy echoed within the tavern in a lonely echo.

Joruk awoke from his bloodthirsty trance, confronted by a dismembered figure before him—the lifeless barkeeper, drained of every drop of blood. As he felt his right stump, now only a scabbed-over patch of skin, the reality of his vampiric transformation sank in. Overwhelmed by constant pain coursing through his veins, Joruk began to cry.

The vampire blood forced into him by the old man now revealed its insidious nature—a transfusion of poison that would torment him for all eternity.

Joruk, grappling with the consequences of his transformation, started spitting blood. The once formidable mercenary had been reduced to a crippled and frail vampire. Each sip of blood, instead of granting strength, became a source of torment, inflicting upon him a searing pain that echoed through his weakened form. Whatever poison the old man used in pair with the vampire blood, it was working, and fatal too.

Joruk, tormented by remorse, exclaimed, "What have I done?!" Memories of the barkeeper flooded his mind—the insults, greetings, and friendly jests that had defined their brief month-long acquaintance. Despite the short time, a repulsive guilt gnawed at Joruk's conscience.

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His distress deepening, Joruk questioned with a heavier weight, "What have we done?!" Recollections of the victimized old man and Joruk's fellow mercenaries replayed in his thoughts—their greed-driven robbery and the unleashing of something malevolent. The cruelty inflicted upon the old man and the haunting echoes of Joruk's own interrogation and torment played out in his mind, a relentless loop that refused to cease.

Joruk, driven by a surge of vampiric confidence, declared vehemently, "That old man! I will kill him!" However, as the reality of the Enderman's fear gripped him, a sudden realization struck, and Joruk recoiled, shouting, "No! NO! I CANNOT KILL HIM!" The profound terror of the Enderman had etched itself into his very being.

A shattered man, Joruk, a savage kin from the south who had witnessed unspeakable horrors, grappled with the monstrous nature of the old man. In the grip of madness, he raved, "I... I must drink blood... I... hungry. Hungry. Blood! I WANT BLOOD!" The once formidable mercenary, now a tortured soul, succumbed to the primal thirst that haunted his existence.

The door to the Tavern creaked open as patrons began to filter in, their laughter and chatter creating a lively ambiance. Tables were occupied, and mugs clinked in toasts. Currently, the dead Olyver was not visible to the new arrivals as his dead body remained under the bar's counter. The bloody hand lying on the floor also didn't catch any attention. Oblivious to the thick scent of blood, and too absorbed in their own conversations, the new arrivals had become easy targets for the vampire.

Amidst the animated conversations, suddenly, without warning, Joruk leaped with feral strength, eyes ablaze. "BLOOD FOR BLOOD," he hissed, sinking his fangs into the neck of an unsuspecting patron.

Gasps of fear resounded. "Vampire!" someone screamed, sending others scrambling in terror. Joruk, blood dripping from his mouth, gripped his prey hungrily, ignoring the chaos he had created.

Panic ensued as the new arrivals scattered in terror, the once lively establishment now haunted by the presence of a vampire in broad daylight.

When sanity returned to Joruk, the weight of realization bore down upon him... again. He had done it again. The pain coursing through his body served as a cruel reminder of the havoc he had wrought. Each drop of blood consumed intensified the agony, a consequence of the insidious poison that now tainted his very essence. Joruk, caught in a relentless cycle, understood the damning truth—the more he drank blood, the more excruciatingly he would suffer. The curse of the poison lingered, forever tormenting him.

A punitive force swiftly descended upon the Tavern, a formidable assembly of Knights, priestly Casters, and the esteemed lord of Mandoor City herself, Countess Selena Fatima. The Countess, a fervent believer in the Divinity of Purification, led the charge.

Helpless in the broad daylight, Joruk faced an inevitable fate. The sunlight, a bane to his vampiric existence, left him powerless. In the end, the once formidable mercenary turned vampire met his demise in the most miserable manner. Hated and scorned by all, Joruk's existence was extinguished.

With the eradication of the vampire threat, peace swiftly returned to the city. Countess Selena Fatima, a vigilant leader, personally oversaw the resolution of the vampire problem. Her watchful gaze and decisive actions ensured the tranquility of her city.

As peace settled back into Mandoor City, citizens engaged in hushed conversations about the recent war with Fandral, the sudden emergence of a vampire, and the looming uncertainty that hung in the air.

"First the war, now a vampire. What's going to happen to our city?" The tax man pondered aloud, surveying the changes that had befallen Mandoor with a troubled expression.

"I heard whispers that there might be more troubles on the horizon. More wars, you know?" added the sentinel by the gates, his voice laden with concern. The uncertainty in the air was palpable, and the city's residents grappled with the weight of an unpredictable future.

"Wars, huh? Hey, it feels like the world every day is in turmoil," mused an archer, a young nobleman in patrol, capturing the prevailing sentiment among the citizens he would hear from here and there.

The constant upheavals had left an indelible mark on their lives, fostering an air of unease and speculation about what challenges the uncertain days ahead might bring.

The city's denizens, gathered in small groups, speculated about the mysterious forces at play. Whispers of impending upheaval lingered, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their once-peaceful lives.

"Do you think this is the end of it? Or are there more... of those things, creatures?" The merchant, a portly middle-aged man, questioned, searching for reassurance amid the lingering uncertainties.

"Who knows? There could be something else lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. I can feel it," replied an adventurer of no particular renown, a sense of foreboding coloring her words. The fear of the unknown hung heavy in the air.

"And what manner of monster will that be? Heh~ we won't know..." mused an old man with a bitter chuckle, acknowledging the unpredictability of the future. His long silver hair draped over his shoulders, while his pristine robes were clean and white.

The citizens of Mandoor City found themselves caught in the web of speculation, contemplating the potential horrors that might unfold in the shadows beyond their awareness.

Conspiracies would spread, and it seemed another upheaval was to occur once more on the horizon.