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Mumbo has no clue how he got here.
The rope around his hand is tight, digging into the skin, leaving angry red marks everywhere it touches. His mouth is filled with cloth, forced past his teeth, tickling at his gag reflex everytime he breathes. The cart under him rattles with every bump in the road, sending jolts through his folded legs as he’s forced to keep kneeling while the journey continues.
The cart is filled with others, yet none speak to him. They are all too focused with a discussion between themselves, each word spoken opening their mouths enough to draw his attention to those sharp fangs, gleaming in the light of the lantern illuminating the cart.
Mumbo has never wanted to be somewhere else more than he does right now.
The cart starts to slow, and for a second, the desire to fight against his bonds rips through him. He starts to struggle, hands twisting and pulling, but a clawed hand on his shoulder stops him instantly, a cold shudder running through his body.
“You will find this much easier if you stop struggling,” The voice belonging to the hand is cold and void of emotion, and its nails dig into the fabric of his suit. “Just because we prefer you alive doesn’t mean it is necessary.” With that, the hand releases, smoothing back down the shoulder of his suit and returning to the man’s lap.
The cart stops a few seconds later. Two hands hook under his arms, forcing him onto his feet. His legs are numb after the long cart ride, and he trips over his own feet as they drag him forward, pulling him off the cart.
For the first time in hours, he gets to see outside the covered cart. The group had brought him deep into the woods, trees as far as he could see in every direction. The moon peeks through the leaves, barely illuminating the path in front of them, yet the group seems to know exactly where they are going, dragging him along silently.
Finally the trees give way, and they enter a large clearing. The clearing holds hundreds of people, all tightly packed within the trees, dark cloaks matching those of the people who kidnapped him. His group continues to drag him along, and the sea of cloaks part, creating a path to the altar waiting at the far side of the clearing. Mumbo finds himself wondering once more what he had gotten himself into, but there isn’t much time to think about it before he’s being forced onto his knees at the end of the aisle.
New people swoop in, taking over. Their cloaks are different from the others, a deep red instead of the black the others wear. These ones grab his arms again, dragging him back up onto his feet before he gets another minute to rest. They pull him up onto the altar, and the ropes wrapped around his hands are cut before he even realises they have a knife. Two hands grab his shoulders and slam him onto the stone altar before he can fight back, and the knife returns to press against his throat, the threat keeping him still as his hands are dragged to either ends of the altar and tied there.
He can hear them speaking, but he struggles to focus on any of the words with a knife so close to his throat. The cloth in his mouth feels worse with his head tilted back, and his throat tightens as he does his best not to gag around it.
Ruby red eyes stare into him. The one wielding the knife grins down at him, sharp fangs glinting in the light of the candles around them. Their tongue darts out to lick their lips, a look of hunger on their face.
Mumbo hopes he isn’t the meal they’re hungry for. His boss would kill him if he was too busy dying to come to work.
The words of the red cloaked figures suddenly quiet. He strains his neck just slightly to look at where he knows they are, and finds the sea of people all staring at him, hundreds of eyes fixed on him. He gulps, skin pressing against the blade of the knife as he swallows, and a hand reaches out to guide his head back down. His eyes meet those of the knife wielder again, and they flash him one last grin before they finally move the knife, setting it down on the altar next to his head.
For a second, he wonders if he is free to go now. It seems like the ceremony is done now.
Then the knife wielder lunges. Sharp pain bursts through his neck, and his scream is heard even through the gag. Fangs pierce his skin, and his veins feel as though they have been filled with fire, a burning feeling travelling down his body. His vision blacks, and for a second the pain stops.
He wonders if he is dying. Was this death, this white empty void?
At least it doesn’t hurt.
Unfortunately, this is not death. The pain returns ten fold, and his vision clears to the altar. The vampire’s fangs release him, and they step back, wiping blood from their lips. They smile down at him, and he wants to punch them in that stupid smile. He would, if it wasn’t for how weak his hands feel, and the fact they were tied down.
Tears are trickling down his cheeks, and he chokes on the gag, no longer able to suppress the reflex as the burning feeling continues in his veins. Thankfully the red robes no longer let him suffer, and the gag is pulled from his mouth. The ropes around his hands are untied, and hands guide him to sit up as he chokes down fresh air.
Each movement hurts. He wants nothing more than to black out again, wants nothing more than to escape this horrible pain. It doesn’t happen, his body staying awake to endure all the pain. They don’t seem to care for his pain, pushing and pulling him around to rip off his jacket, wrapping one of their cloaks around him instead.
“Welcome,” they say, and oh how he wishes he could curse them out, but the only thing his lips can do right now is cry. “The pain will end soon.”
Oh how he hopes they aren’t lying.