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It was dark for a very long time.
He was trapped in a state of half-awareness, unable to lift out of his bewitched slumber. Vampires didn’t dream; rather memories played on loop, during the few times the spell waned. Memories of times simpler, when he and his Sire explored the world, just the two of them.
Those memories became soured, first by her spell, and then by the stabbing pain in his already dead heart. And the bond between them; once having rung with comfort and protection, was now scattered into oblivion.
She was dead; she had trapped him here to protect him he’d realized. And under her spell he could do nothing, powerless to help her fight; or at the very least to die right beside her.
His Sire was his sister, and he knows not all Sirebonds are quite as strong as the one they shared. It only makes his grief worse.
And still he slumbers, as time stretches on. He is empty, hunger seeping deep into his bones and festering.
He wakes fully to the scraping of stone above him. There is a heartbeat in his ears, loud and strong. The vampire has no time to think, nor want to do so as his hunger roars and he surges up, fangs sinking deep into flesh. Deeper still they go, pulling up that warm red nectar as his bite becomes a seal. His prey struggles weakly, before… Placing a hand on his hair?
Fingers sink into his matted locks, soft and… and kind. He briefly wonders: Lauren is that you? For the action is one she had done for him often, carding delicate fingers through his hair so that he’d melt like a cat against her chest. But no; his Sire, his sister is dead, as evidenced by the gaping hole where once their bond filled his chest. This blood does not taste the same, like sweet blueberries rather than roasted nuts. Tears burn his eyes as those fingers weaken, even as selfishly he chases that comfort this person is giving him.
They are more than just his prey; they broke his Sire’s spell. Flashes appear before his eyes, memories contained in blood that shapes this person. A full-beared man with enthralling tales and deep jolly laugh, one whose absence is a weight upon her heart. Words upon pages upon books, piles of paragraphs in search of answers. A joy and whimsy that refuses to snuff out as whispers grow behind their back.
He sees and makes a decision, though not a conscious one. His intent shifts from feed to protect, as she’s drained and her heartbeat slows. Venom pushes inside her veins, circulating through her body sluggishly. He leaves his coffin and crouches down, laying their body gently upon the cold stone floor.
Scott can still feel the emptiness where his Sirebond once lay, unlikely to ever leave. But now there is something new, unfamiliar to him. A Fledgebond.
He makes a silent promise; to himself, or to his Fledgling, or even Lauren’s ghost. This, Scott will protect, as once had been done for him.
—
Abolish was used to living in luxury; not for himself but adjacent to the ones he served. Really, the sprawling dirt road and sturdy woods around it were a nice change of pace. Laying in the dirt nestled between uncomfortable tree roots, exposed and vulnerable to the elements and wild animals was better than the mediocre mattresses and drafty boarding Lord Thornvale provided his staff.
You wouldn’t think it would be, but the wild is far friendlier than Lord Thornvale’s manor. Out here, Abolish knows the rules, and they don’t change based on an old man’s mood. One which has likely soured now that one of his best servants is gone.
Abolish figures it’s more than just him Astraea sent packing. The head servant had a soft spot for everyone under her care, and over the fifteen years he’d spent in the manor Abolish had watched as the old woman silently, slowly, grew a backbone as Lord Thornvale’s “slights” against the servants had increased with his dawning age and he lost use of his reasoning.
He remembers it very clearly, despite the event having been two weeks prior. There was a fire smoldering in her chestnut gaze, as she pressed a bundle of clothes and food into his arms, along with an earring she had placed carefully into his earlobe. He doesn’t know where she even got the thing, it being much too fine for a mere servant to just have.
Abolish had been tempted to stay behind, having noticed her gathering oil and lighters. His hands itched to raze the God forsaken manor to the ground, to see his Lord’s legacy go up in smoke and greedy fire. But she had insisted, pushing him along despite his own stubborn streak. Abolish was stronger than she, he could have stayed put and Astraea wouldn’t be able to stop him.
He had relented in the end, determined to honor her sacrifice. If she didn’t allow the flames to consume her body, then she would be punished severely by Lord Thornvale for her transgression. Her and anyone else still around, even if they had nothing to do with the burning.
It was odd to Abolish how drawn to fire he was. Ever since he was thirteen, he had much preferred the chill over any kind of heat, particularly with his water. It could be because the burns scarring his hands didn’t come from a fire at all. Or maybe it had to do with his name. Fire is often associated with a destructive force, after all.
He expected to continue on his path alone, while he searched for a proper place to stay. Hopefully one where there were few people, ones that didn’t require him to speak.
So imagine Abolish’s surprise when he ran into a traveling doctor.
—
The young man Legundo had encountered while on the road was quite an odd one.
His clothes were well-worn and of the sort the common person would wear, so the doctor felt at ease around him. The silver cross earring that pierced his left ear stuck out sharply, particularly with that bright red gem inlaid in the center. Only someone with money could afford a piece of jewelry of such quality, or even jewelry at all, but someone of money would never stoop so low as to wear commoner’s garb - at least from Legundo’s experience. So perhaps a favored servant?
However when he had tried to ask as much, he received nothing but a blank stare and slow blinking brown eyes. The doctor figured it may not be something he wished to speak of, so had instead pivoted to asking for a name. This time he let out a long breath through his nose like he was sighing while shaking his head and focusing his attention on the road ahead.
All other attempts to get the man to speak were in vain. Legundo wondered if his companion’s silence was preference, or if he was unable to form words due to some sort of condition.
Now, Legundo was a doctor, but he didn’t think it right to broach what could be a potentially touchy subject.
Another thing he noticed was that the man never removed his gloves.
They were nice gloves, made of a sturdy leather that went just past his wrist. It looked like they fastened there, as the doctor had never seen them ride downwards. He wondered if they covered something, as the young man would sometimes rub them with a nearly imperceptible grimace, the most emotion Legundo ever saw on his face.
And still despite his mental musings, Legundo refused to push. The young man would tell him when he was ready, whether it be through speech or paper. Instead, the doctor filled the silence between them with his travels.
He was a traveling doctor, going from town to town to help people in need. His companion seemed interested, so he kept going. He would make occasional noises to express whatever thoughts he had about whatever it was Legundo was recounting at the time.
It was nice to have company that listened. Truthfully, it was nice to have company at all.
—
The only person Pyro could blame for his predicament was himself. Well, he could blame Czeslaw, he supposed, but what use was there in blaming a dead man for your problems, even if said dead man was the source of your problems?
The bastard is probably laughing at him from Hell. Sometimes Pyro wonders what Hell is really like. After all nobody’s seen it before (he hopes) so it could just as easily be anything as it could be an expanse of fire and tortured screaming like most assumed. He prays Hell is some form of torture, because Czeslaw deserves nothing less.
That’s probably an awful thing to wish on somebody. But again, that somebody is Czeslaw. Pyro doesn’t have sympathy to waste on the man who relentlessly bullied him.
So now Pyro’s here; disowned, a drop-out, and accused of murder. Yay! There’s no time to dwell on such things though- He’s got a thesis to write.
The endeavor is probably useless. His university isn’t going to take him back, but Pyro wants to at least do something he enjoys. He’d always been fascinated with history, and Oakhurst is just… so interesting. The supernatural rumors, the superstition of a curse? Truthfully, he had wanted to write his original thesis on the place, but decided against it as there weren’t many sources at his disposal.
Now though, he doesn’t have anything else to lose, so what could be the harm in checking the place out?
—
Owen would rather rot underneath the watchtower. Yet humans scuttle like ants across Oakhurst’s lands. He can feel it, their movement disrupting his wallowing. Hunger urges him to rise, which he does begrudgingly.
He checks the chest stashed under the tower’s rotting floorboards. Owen breathes an unnecessary sigh of relief upon seeing it both intact and still holding onto what he left there. The clothes Louis died in, singed around the edges but otherwise still fine. The vampire presses his face into the shirt, gritting his teeth as a wave of mourning washes over him. It didn’t hold the smell - why would it? It’s been two centuries; Owen knows this because he felt himself fully Fledge… What, two days ago? The sensation is another reason why he stirred.
It hits him again, how Louis should be here. But instead there is only a stabbing pain in Owen’s heart where the Sirebond should lay, and Louis’ death garments pressed to his face - they don’t carry his scent, or even the smoke from the fire that burned him. Owen would’ve taken that over nothing, because even painful memories are still memories.
Three curly haired children in varying shades of black: ink, raven, and charcoal come to mind. He silently begs forgiveness; Owen had tried his very best to shield Louis’s descendants from his wrath and growing bloodlust. He’d made them run far away before enacting his revenge. It was better he buried himself when he did. He may have hurt them if he went searching for them afterwards.
He would have never, never, forgiven himself if he had hurt those three. But Owen is a monster where Louis never was, and those children were better off without him.
Reverently he folds the shirt back up, settling it inside the old chest once again. Owen buries it under the dirt of the tower’s floor; it has protected Louis’s memory all this time, it can keep doing so for a little while longer. Right now there are humans that require Owen’s attention.
—
The wolves are traveling east and so she will too; or rather east-adjacent. Her feet have a mind of their own and carry her where they see fit. An arrangement which works for Pearl, her sense of direction nonexistent. Still she always manages to end up where she’s meant to be.
Something is rising, stirring, and though Pearl isn’t sure what she can feel it call to her soul. Like to like, even if it isn’t quite her.
Wolves are social creatures, living and hunting in packs. Pearl has had nobody for over a decade. She’s lonely, as much as she hates to admit it. All her life Pearl has been the solitary one; now she aches for a community to call her own.
A bark rings out at her feet, bringing a delighted grin to her face.
Nobody except Tilly.
The wolf had found Pearl during her first Full Moon. The recently turned werewolf had woken to a large friendly actual wolf licking her face. She had been deeply confused to say the least, but rolled with it anyway. Tilly had been with her ever since.
From what Pearl could gather, Tilly was a sort of werewolf in her own right. She was much larger than a normal wolf, and the pair could understand each other quite well. It wasn’t unheard of for wolves to be Turned, Pearl had found out in her research. It wasn’t commonly done, sure, but it did happen.
They were a pack of two content to wander towards that calling. Maybe not the best idea, but Pearl never claimed to have those. You only live once, and she’ll live hers to the fullest.
—
There is an itching under his skin. It roils and burns, turning his veins to fire.
He grits his teeth and shoves the anger cooked into his body aside. He’s had plenty of practice. It’s been like this since his childhood.
Avid’s hands tremble on Elle’s crossbow the closer he gets to his destination. His gait is hurried, violet gaze darting frantically around for any signs of the monster that killed his partner.
You need look no further than your reflection. The monster you seek wears your face.
He can’t die yet, not until Elle is avenged.
Your death would avenge her. You can’t die at all.
Guilt makes Avid stumble, shame and grief locking his muscles as he falls to his knees on the grassy floor. He sucks in a breath, body shuddering, unable to contain his emotions.
The scratches on his neck throb in time with his beating heart. It trills at his despair, black curling around his vision. No! He screams internally. You’ve already eaten her. Aren’t you satisfied? Will you ever be?!
With great effort, Avid pushes himself to his feet. Keep going. He has to keep going.
You know it would be easier to give in. You know how good it feels.
—
Sausage (more commonly known as Mr. M; renowned author) was a rather busy man.
He was a writer, a dreamer. He kept a notebook and pencil tucked away in a pocket at all times, primed in case the man had a burst of inspiration.
He wasn’t just an author though. For as much as he could be swept up in the passion of the written word - and he could become very passionate - Sausage also enjoyed carpentry.
He had grown up learning his father’s trade, wood dust getting caught in the tangles of his hair and inflicting more splinters upon himself than he could count. Sausage’s hands were calloused from a lifetime of splitting boards and hammering beams into place until whatever house, or shop, or wagon was complete. He loved the work and he loved the writing and he couldn’t be a happier man.
But he’d been running dry of inspiration as of late. And what better place to gain more was there than the infamous Oakhurst? It was almost the 200 year anniversary of the last massacre, and the curse calls for one to happen bicentennially.
Maybe Sausage’ll get swept up in the curse? There’s nothing quite like mortal peril to get the inspiration flowing!
Mind made up, he hums a hearty tune while packing his things. This should prove to be a fun journey!
—
Ren had picked up his love of storytelling from his darling mam. And one of his mam’s stories was of Oakhurst. Ever since he was a wee lad, he had known Oakhurst to be his destiny.
Ren was a good son, following her dying wishes. Years it had taken; he doesn’t quite know how long, time having blurred to grief after his mam’s death.
She had always been there for him, his pa having died when Ren was merely a babe. Her voice was beautiful, a gentle melody to make songbirds jealous. Nothing like his twisted tongue, cursed by that witch when he was too young to know better than to take sweets from strangers.
In his time, Ren had met many a folk from all walks of life. All were taken by his mam’s charms. Sometimes he wondered if she was perhaps a witch herself. She had apologized profusely to him that night, for her “acquaintance’s deplorable trickery”. But there was no cure to his curse.
Ren had grown to accept that, even though he missed and eventually forgot the cadence of his original voice.
He was caught deep within his musings when he felt it - a dark presence crawling over his skin and suffocating the air. Renhardt knew deep in his soul that this was the place his mam had told him of. He didn’t know why she wanted him to go; never had Ren been one to question his dear mam. But it had been important to her, so it became important to him in turn.
He just wished it wasn’t a place so clearly seeped in darkness.
—
Shelby skipped through the woods towards the ruined town, relishing the sensation of the sun’s warm light on her skin.
It did sting now, but that was fine. Really, it was more than fine!
Another rush of giddiness overtook her at the memory of what had happened a few hours ago. Going down into the destroyed castle’s crypt may have well been the best decision of Shelby’s life. She’d come to Oakhurst in search of the supernatural - better yet, she’d found it.
Waking up an ancient vampire and being Turned was not among their plans. They can’t really complain though; Scott’s been so nice in explaining things to her. Like how she doesn’t need to feed from humans, and showing her how to hunt and transform into a bat.
She can feel his bemused stare on her back, most likely observing Shelby. They just giggle to themselves, turning their focus inward to seek out the bond. A Sirebond, he’d called it. It bunches up near their heart and wraps them like a cozy sweater. She’s never felt something like this before, didn’t even realize it was something she wanted until it was there.
To imagine life - unlife? - without it… Shelby doesn’t want to. It makes them sad to think about, similar to when their thoughts turn to their dad. They had asked Scott about his own Sire; he hadn’t answered, but she could feel his pain through their bond. Something he tried quickly to hide.
Shelby doesn’t push the matter, but she can’t help but wonder what they may have been like. She has an idea, of course. Scott had mentioned a sharing of memories between Sire and Fledgling- nothing extreme! Just… the “core” ones. The ones that shape who a person is.
One of Scott’s was of a woman. Her hair was long and white, like the color of milk. Her eyes were mismatched but both were lovely hues of red; the right a deep wine color while the left was a soft cherry pink that glittered with mirth and mischief. She was bright against the background, the clearest thing in that memory, and there was such a strong pulse of familial love for her.
Shelby didn’t know her name, nor did they ask, but they knew that gorgeous woman was important to Scott.
The two of them will arrive soon, Shelby curious as to who may be hanging around the abandoned town. Scott had said he could feel quite a few moving over the land, because he had such a strong claim over the area even though it had been weakened over the centuries. Part of it had to do with being given the land by the Crown and named a Lord, which cemented Oakhurst as Scott’s territory over any other vampire.
It was really cool that her new friend was a Lord. Honestly, Shelby doesn’t think there’s any better vampire to have been Sired by than Scott.
—
My dearest Cherri,
I know you worry after my safety the longer we remain apart, but you need not fret any longer. As much as it pains me to admit, I have been discharged.
It seems my cowardice at the mere sight of blood has reached its accepted limit to my superiors. I have been told to build an outpost in the old town of Oakhurst, and to stay there for six months, after which I may return to stay by your side.
It is shameful, certainly, but I find myself anticipating each dawn, as it only draws me closer to you.
Oakhurst, as you well know, is little more than ruins. I do wonder as to why my former superiors stationed me there, but who am I to complain? At the very least, I won’t have to deal with anybody; perhaps the odd tourist coming to find evidence of strange happenings, but they won’t find anything.
Oh my darling, I simply can not wait to see you again. I have missed you so very much.
Love,
Your Apo
—
The orchid is wilting.
She doesn’t know why she kept it. An irrational fear that she was being tracked, and that leaving it somewhere would give the killer a clue as to her whereabouts? Maybe they can sniff out ashes should she burn the thing instead.
Some detective Drift was, hiding in a rented room far away from the city she grew up in. She hates her cowardice. Maybe if she hadn’t fled, Drift could catch the killer. She has no clue how many others have died after she left, if any at all. Because maybe she was being stalked.
Maybe they were waiting for her to be lulled into a false sense of security before finishing the job. Drift doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know. She just wants to stay alive.
Is that really so bad? To want to live? But can Drift really call this: running from death, constantly looking over her shoulder, living?
She hears a door slam nearby and nearly jumps out of her skin. The detective places a hand over her rapidly-beating heart, trying to calm her nerves. She should keep moving. Tonight she’ll rest, then head out in the morning. Didn’t the locals say there was another town nearby?
She’ll head over there. In the morning.
Drift tucks the orchid into her lapel. The petals curl brittle at the ends.
—
Cleo is angry, and she relishes in it. Not only angry but gleeful. Good riddance to the vampire that Thralled them, they hope he’s rotting. For Thralling Cleo, for killing her mother, along with her mother’s Covenmates. They had been her aunts and uncles, begrudgingly at first. But the ratty human child that Sasha had found and raised had grown on them over time, to the point where thinking of Cleo as food was just… not.
For all their faults, Cleo had loved them all.
They hate that they mourn him. She knows it’s just the remnants of the Thralling, that it isn’t real, but that just makes it worse.
Cleo shakes her head, teeth gritting painfully. She’s got something else to focus on. Their mother came from Oakhurst, centuries ago. Cleo had too, apparently right before the massacre. How lucky for them.
It really is a shame what happened to Louis. Their memories from childhood are very fuzzy, but she remembers the mayor. He was a kind man, making the town prosperous during his tenure and taking in three young children who had lost their mother. They also remember the sickly lumberjack who seemed to always be with either of those four.
If Cleo had to guess, they would bet what few belongings they had that it was the lumberjack who had killed everyone. A Newblood having just lost their Sire is a dangerous and deadly thing. It was likely that afterwards he went to sleep somewhere and stayed that way.
Truthfully, she’s looking for him, just to ensure he won’t be a problem. An experience like that would sour any vampire’s outlook on humanity. There’s also the rumor of an Elder vampire under the ruins of the castle, which Cleo intends to investigate.
They really, really don’t want those two to be problematic. Knowing her luck, they probably will be.
—
The man has no name. He carries with him hundreds of labels, falsehoods spun by a clever tongue. Time and practice have honed his craft: lying.
There is no real version of the man, not one any might remember, laying awake late at night in that half-aware state. And perhaps there never was. He has nothing to reminisce from his small years, no happier times to cling to.
He didn’t want to be this way. The man, boy at the time, had been hungry. Not only for food, but also comfort. He had tried, even while scrounging for scraps, to be good, whatever the word may mean. Better than his surroundings. He had watched the people more fortunate than he, had adopted their mannerisms in an attempt to be presentable.
Maybe if he proved he could be one with them, he would be given all the things he lacked. He had spent years on the fruitless endeavor, only to be turned away and chased at every turn, until the reality which had been slowly sinking into his bones finally settled. He knew exactly what he was.
A rat born to drown in a gutter, unable to lift his pitiful head above filthy water. Nothing more, and nothing less.
Lies never last. The one true thing of the man’s trade. That is the reason why he never remains in place. Eventually, his porcelain mask is pulled back by a stranger to reveal the rot underneath. Almost always, it is somebody grown close to the identity the man wears. They feel betrayal at his deception, and he does not care. This life of his is survival.
At this point it is a game to the man. For if it is not a game then it is a burden, and he refuses to have his one constant weigh heavy on his spirit and crush him.
The man arrives in ruins, part of a motley collection of others.
Martyn Woodhurst steps into the spotlight…
And the game begins anew.