The tale that follows is not from the time line we know—but it might have been, had the dice fallen differently...
One Full Henderson Ver0.4
1.0 Hendersons
A derailment significant enough to prevent the party from reaching the intended ending.
At times, the GM may confiscate a player’s character sheet as a price for undue power.
Lit by the radiance of the divine Mother’s blessed rays, a vessel slid across the cloudy sea of midnight. The gargantuan feat of airborne architecture was known by the peoples of the land as an “aeroship.”
From the side, the girthy beast appeared as a flat triangular pyramid, and the two clusters of three arcane sigils each near her rear glowed dimly in the dark; propelled by mystic means, she quietly blended in with the thin clouds under the Night’s veil.
To expound on this dancer navigating a darkened stage, she was a warship: the official first among the Trialist Empire’s mass-produced fleet. When Rhine had initially sent its armada into the world, it had shaken the western reach of the Central Continent to its core; this monster was the foremost of the leviathans that had shifted the paradigm of war. She was the Theresea, lead ship of all Theresea-class conquestships.
Having completed her maiden voyage in the middle of the Empire’s sixth century, she and her sisters boasted terrifying suites of weaponry that struck fear into the hearts of lesser nations. Save for the elder dragons that were closer to natural disasters than living beings, these ships were a clear declaration that the skies were Rhine’s to claim.
The Queen of the Skies was outfitted with six mystic engines, each nearly a perpetual motion machine of the first kind. Furthermore, she was supported by tanks of helium—lighter than air, she was free from the shackles of her predecessors and could retain altitude to continue her reign of terror free of arcane support.
The engineers had adopted standardized specifications during her design, subdividing the whole craft into parts that combined into a unified whole. Whole sections of the ship could be swapped out to better suit the purpose of her voyage, and sections damaged or destroyed could be replaced entirely; she was an easy-to-maintain, all-purpose machine.
While the Theresea and her sisters had ferried about many a diplomat as political formalities, as the word “conquest” preceding “ship” might suggest, they had also brought their nations to heel. In the belly of the ship was a massive aerial dance hall meant to shock visitors with sheer scale and technological prowess; in times of war, it could be swapped for a loading bay that housed countless magical incendiary shells that bathed enemy armies and cities in flame. And when those burning nations sent their dragon knights up in a last-ditch attempt at survival, their imperial counterparts were ready to intercept from the ship’s drake stables.
Nineteen in total, the vessels represented such overwhelming firepower that they had quelled major conflict in the region. They had never once experienced large-scale war—nay, had never allowed it—in one-hundred-fifty-odd years of sailing.
Alas, any mensch who had borne witness to their glory was long since buried. In the early years of the Empire’s seventh century, a new design that outstripped the Theresea-class ships in both function and ease of maintenance was invented, marking an end to their era in history. Time’s flow was merciless, and the last of their kind had been decommissioned many years ago—near the beginning of the eighth imperial century.
Where once these ladies had caused the skies to quake in their presence, their last few decades of service had seen them reduced to cruise ships for the affluent. Most were now disassembled, save for a few still kept intact as historical display pieces.
Why then, you may ask, was the decrepit Queen of the Skies soaring over her domain? Well, the reasons were very grand indeed.
According to official imperial documentation, the first of the Theresea-class aerial conquestships—the Theresea proper—had been relieved of her dual duties as Flagship of the Joint Imperial Navy and Flagship of Her Imperial Majesty’s First Armada one-hundred-twenty years prior. Some seventy years following, she was retired entirely and parked in the capital to live out her twilight years as a historical monument by the Martin I Imperial Aeroport in Berylin.
In reality, the powers that be had decided such a fate unfitting for the Queen, and pushed through the canceled plan to repair and refit her with modern parts; the Theresea now found herself in foreign skies. The vessel parked by the capital’s airport was the eldest of her younger sisters: the Hildegarde, but with a new coat of paint.
Hardly anyone in the entire country knew of this secret, but after withdrawing from the public eye, the warship continued to protect the Empire from the shadows. No longer part of the imperial navy, she found herself piloted by the jagers. Her mission came from the top authority in the Trialist Empire of Rhine: the Empress had sent her far to the west, past the remote imperial frontiers, and into a smattering of peripheral nations defined by fuzzy national borders.
As soon as the world learned of the aeroship’s might, every nation had scrambled to follow the Empire’s suit to not fall behind in the arms race. With the proliferation of the technology came a pervasive military doctrine: know the position of enemy crafts at all times. The Queen of the Skies could single-handedly turn the tides of battle, but not even she could demonstrate her dominance if the enemy managed to avoid her. Aeroships could soar past dozens of towns and villages in a mere hour, but they took time to lift off and even more to be battle-ready. As a result, keeping tabs on the known locations of other countries’ vessels had become a matter of utmost importance.
But flipping that logic on its head, a “disassembled” craft hidden under the pretenses of official documentation may as well not exist. A ship that no one could find, that no one knew to look for, would be an asset far greater than her raw firepower alone—such was the argument put forth by an imperial guardsman that inspired this exceptional top secret warship.
Tonight, the Queen’s ancient frame took to the skies to serve the Empire once more; her mission was to trample the barbarians who dared threaten the nation.
“Final call! Current position stable; altitude stable; direction and velocity on course!”
“Roger, final call! Hold course!”
Voices barked back and forth in the ship’s rear bridge, across reading instruments and steering mechanisms placed for maximum efficiency. The navigation officer’s report was good, and the first mate hurried over to the massive window—it was actually a wall, but a spell artificially recreated the view outside—facing the open skies to relay the news to the commanding officer.
“Sir, we’ve arrived at the landing zone.”
“...What a beautiful moon.”
“Yes, sir! ...Huh?” Though his military background compelled him to affirm, the first mate doubled back in confusion at his superior’s response. His commander was staring off into the heavens, and he had no idea what he was saying.
“Never mind,” the commander responded. “Very good. Begin immediately.”
“Yes, sir!”
Receiving a proper command the second time around, the first mate ordered the air traffic controller manning the mystic map to give the word; the ship’s belly was home to a multifaceted hold, but the only important section now was the drake stables.
“Air Control to Nachtschwalb One: are you ready for takeoff?”
“Nachtschwalb One to Air Control: at the ready and standing by.”
Just outside the cramped stables, three antsy beasts waited in a hold constructed of unembellished plywood. Curiously enough, the plateau drakes had been painted in a coat of blue-black camouflage to blend into the night.
Actually, the camouflage was not so unusual; reducing the visibility of one’s steed via paint was a timeless tactic. Rather, the strangeness came from the contraptions attached to their harnesses via wire: odd capsules covered with lids.
These were drakerafts: imperial towing containers for parcels that needed to be delivered posthaste. Yet they were no ordinary specimens—they were entirely covered in the same paints as their carriers, and three steering fins stretched out from the sides to evoke fishlike imagery. To top it all off, the tip protruded to an excessive degree, reinforced with metal alloys. If an average drake courier were to see one of these, they would surely cock their head in confusion.
“Copy that, Nachtschwalb One—opening the hatch. You are clear for dispatch.”
“Roger that, Air Control. This is Nachtschwalb One, commencing dispatch.”
At the bridge’s order, a red light began flashing in the flight bay. The men on standby near the drakes and their cargo hurried out of the room, leaving only the draconic beasts and their riders; the wall before them slowly fell forward to expose the open skies.
Air fled the pressurized cabin for the open expanse, taking random scraps out with it: miscellaneous trash flew out alongside the leftovers from the drakes’ premission meal. Yet the dragon knight in the center—Nachtschwalb One—refused to flinch as he goaded his steed forward.
“All right, come on buddy. Let’s do this.”
The rider patted his partner’s neck and the drake dutifully obliged. It kicked off the ground with claws fit to lift cows into the sky and sprinted, dragging along its heavy luggage with ease. By the time the drake made it to the end of the considerable runway, it had accelerated beyond the top speeds of any horse; it leapt into the night, tearing up the air as it jumped. The sprint added onto the aeroship’s initial velocity, not to mention the extra speed earned by beating its wings; the drake outstripped its mother ship in an instant.
Not wanting to be left behind, the second drake followed suit while letting out a quiet roar at the joy of freedom. The pinnacle of military husbandry quickly zoomed past the limits of human ingenuity.
Once all three were out safely, far beyond the ship, they regrouped to take formation with Nachtschwalb One at the helm.
“Nachtschwalb One to Air Control: all units dispatched. En route to destination.”
“Air Control to Nachtschwalb One: copy that. Theresea will maintain position. No further communication until mission completion or abortion. Best of luck.”
Seen off by a stock farewell, the three dragon knights formed a small arrow that melted into the darkness. Having left their base behind, they would be subjected to a grueling hours-long journey. Though they employed mystic barriers to reduce drag and protect themselves from frigid gales, life atop the saddle was anything but comfortable.
Glorious and beloved by children across the Empire, these airborne soldiers were in truth feeble things. They were pitiable souls who covered themselves in layer after layer of heat-retaining clothing and stuffed their gloves full of cotton just to not freeze, all while enduring their long journeys in a set of diapers.
The leader of the pack reached into a leather pouch and pulled out an enchanted thermos. He unscrewed the lid and flipped it over to act as his cup, pouring out the warm liquid inside. Whether one could consider it red tea with how much liquor it contained was dubious, but suffice it to say that this was every dragon knight’s truest love.
Heat managed to escape through every crack in his coverings, and this drink was the cure to his numb, aching body. But as he sipped, a disgruntled thought entered the man’s mind: despite seeming like it was gliding smoothly, his partner had some grievances to air. In more comprehensible terms, the drake was thinking, No fair.
Unlike the master-servant relationship between most jockeys and their domesticated helpers, the standing between a dragon knight and drake could only ever be described as friendship. Borrowing the iconography of another world, the drake was upset that the person riding shotgun was comfortably snacking away while it had to drive on the highway.
“Come on, don’t complain. You know you can’t drink while flying. I’ll give you as much as you want when we get home.”
After petting his partner’s neck for a bit, the man opened up a map, being careful to not let the wind blow it away. He caught a glimpse of the earth a while later through parted clouds and matched the terrain to the map; they were close.
“Nachtschwalb One to wingmen and passengers: border crossing is approaching. Telepathic comms will be severed. Mages, I ask that you make sure not to produce any trace. All units will be shifting into cruise, and the wires will be cut to begin descent shortly.”
The pilot announced all the pertinent information over telepathic waves and ran through the next steps in his mind. He would need to yank the wire off the communication device strapped to his neck to cut its power supply, and then pull out the mana stone found within; it was extremely important that he didn’t accidentally broadcast his thoughts through some mishap. Right about now, his wingmen and passengers were surely all preparing to do the same.
“Upon entry you are authorized to act on your own best judgment. No further communication until mission completion or abortion. God of War be with you.”
Just as Air Control had done for him, the rider offered a stock goodbye before duly going through the motions of establishing radio silence. He gave his partner his next order through the reins alone. Theirs was a long partnership, and the drake responded by stretching out its wings and toning down its natural magic to slow into an easy glide.
One long cruise later, the drake dipped into the clouds, swimming through shadows where the tender Mother’s light did not reach. They blew past plains, strode over mountains, and flew across forests. Once the wilderness was behind them, they came upon a frontier more remote than even the Empire’s westernmost reaches: a satellite state run by a grand duke.
Imperial satellites subjected themselves to vassalage in exchange for the Trialist Empire’s support in times of danger, and were expected to come to Rhine’s aid should the need ever arise. While the cost of offering tribute, opening borders, and even allowing free trade was steep, imperial backing was a formidable boon when navigating international policy. Furthermore, the Empire liked to imagine itself a bighearted friend: it generously offered spare crops to tide over bad harvests, and at times even gave away immense knowledge—not by imperial standards, of course—for free. As far as friends went, Rhine was one of the better ones to have.
At present, the Trialist Empire and its largest neighbors were separated by many buffer states much like this one, all teetering on a knife’s edge. There were countless tiny countries with identical circumstances, save for the superpower they had sworn fealty to; as such, the major players continued to sharpen their swords without ever crossing blades directly.
Until someone appeared, ready to rock the boat.
The king of a certain minor nation broke his oath—both the aggressor and the victims in this case were under the Rhinian umbrella—and began annexing his neighbors in a bid for independence.
Obviously, the Trialist Empire was unwilling to accept his ambitions. The crown sent messenger after messenger to demand he cease his outrage and sit down for talks, yet none of them returned.
At long last, the fifth courier who had been sent with an imperial summons came home...as a head pinned to his horse’s rear. This was a revolt—one definitely funded by a rival superpower.
The Empress immediately interrupted her nobles’ harvest season to recall them to the capital and hosted an emergency council, prompting a unanimous response of utter confusion.
Rude as it was to say, rebellions and infighting amongst lesser nations were a daily affair. Forgettable countries shifted allegiance to and from the Empire at least once every few years, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear about two members of Rhine’s orbit duking it out without permission. This whole system of suzerainty had only emerged so that the superpowers could avoid real wars in the first place; stirring trouble to cause a few minor scuffles was all part of the fun. It wasn’t as if the Trialist Empire hadn’t partaken in its fair share of mischief, inciting revolutions and feigning ignorance as soon as the tides turned against their agents of chaos.
True, a minor nation gobbling up a midsized neighbor and spreading through the region like wildfire was strange, yet their successes were hardly enough to justify a direct imperial response. Standard policy would have been to hand the neighboring satellites some pocket change and have them raise their own armies, telling them that anything they won was theirs to keep. Otherwise, they could just have a marquis in the region muster a few troops and offer imperial support to quickly quash the rebellion.
However, the Empress insisted that this matter seemed different; convincing her countrymen at the convention, she prepared the nation for war. It had been over two hundred years since the Trialist Empire had last rallied the imperial army. The country was to prepare itself for its first official armed conflict since the Second Eastern Conquest led by the Dragon Rider that had opened up the Eastern Passage.
Just this past noon, the aristocratic assembly had declared war and transferred all martial rights and privileges from Her Majesty’s hand to that of a young Graufrock general. Before the hour was up, the Queen of the Skies had discreetly set off from the western frontier to make her way here; she now hovered above the royal capital—home to a castle no better than a paltry shack compared to the imperial palace—of the middling nation that had fallen to the troublemaking king.
“Not even a single sky patrol at night?” Nachtschwalb One said. “They sure are some country hicks... Why would you ever pick a fight with the Empire like this? Do they think we’re stupid?”
It was practically empty. They’d reduced their mystic footprint to the occasional flap of their drakes’ wings just to maintain altitude, and for what? That these cretins didn’t have watchmen for their royal palace—sneak attacks aside, wild drakes could show up at any moment to play—made the dragon knight suspect a trap. If not, then the Theresea’s new silent engines might let the whole ship park right on top without waking a soul.
“Well, whatever. We’ve got a nice home delivery for you.” The man put up a hand sign for his fellow riders and then unfastened the steel threads holding his drake’s package. “Trap or not, these vampires of ours will be more than happy to oblige. Have fun.”
The drake deftly curled up to avoid being whipped by the dancing wires and soared skyward; the drakeraft, meanwhile, began to fall gently. The fins wriggled around to adjust its trajectory as it descended onto a city nearly unscarred by battle.
Of the three parcels, two headed for the castle, with the last going toward an open field thought to be the enemy’s headquarters—all of them fell headfirst. The locations had been identified by an imperial mole; each vessel dove with full faith in its course.
Around the time the first cleared the thin castle walls and crossed the official border into the capital, the bottom of the drakeraft slid off and tumbled away. What came next was an unbelievable scene: people lightly dressed in nothing but a set of full black began to jump out of the hole, one after another.
These men were soldiers. Wearing only the bare minimum and equipped with foldable spears, shields, or shortbows, they were nimble paratroopers. Covered in black from head to toe, they blended into the night as each slowed their own fall with their method of choice: some relied on wings, others employed canvas parachutes, and others still cast antigravitational spells to prevent a crash.
The soldiers jumped out in orderly fashion until only two were left. One of the final passengers continued to fiddle with the steering controls, and his comrade shook him on the shoulder.
“Captain, let’s go! This is as close as we’ll get!”
“Sure, sure. Feel free to go on ahead. I’ll be fine as I am.”
“Excuse me?!”
The overcast skies blocked the Night Goddess’s presence to the point where a mensch wouldn’t have even been able to make out the castle’s outline; yet the captain merrily stared out the craft’s tiny window. He turned to face his companion with a smile—two terrifying fangs jutting out between his pretty lips.
“I promised Her Majesty I’d lead the charge, you see.”
“Right, but... I know you’re strong, but I mean... Ugh.”
The man hung his head, defeated by his CO’s deranged statement. Normally, the best course of action would be to force him to come along even if it meant beating him unconscious, but he knew that his captain wouldn’t listen once his mind was set. Although he spewed impossible nonsense like a broken pump, he’d also never fallen short of it.
The subordinate sighed in utter resignation and left him with the simple words, “Best of luck.”
“Hmm hm, la dee da... Hmhmm hm, la dee doo...”
Alone, the man hummed a joyous tune as he tilted the control stick. It could only make minor adjustments to his course, but it sufficed to point him straight at the castle’s center—from the looks of things, that was probably where the royal chamber was.
All three drakerafts let gravity lead them through the open air...and naturally, they came to share a passionate embrace with the ground or the walls of some structure; the delight of the romantic rendezvous erupted as a torrent of flames, and the deafening noise that followed shook the world itself. In total, fifteen passengers had ridden on each of the three drakerafts; by removing every bit of free space and throwing away the concept of comfort wholesale, the Empire had managed to outfit these missiles with refined explosives that ignited on collision.
The fuel held within spread in an instant, and the superheated air swelled inside to tear open the point of impact. Waves of heat lapped victims organic and inorganic alike in tongues of pure flame, giving birth to hell on earth.
One of the rockets had eradicated a third of the enemy’s barracks; the soldiers within had been digesting the weight of their recent battles in the realm of dream, but would find that their slumber had turned suddenly permanent. Another of the drakerafts had landed in the upper part of the castle, blowing away the worries of the busy servants napping inside.
And the last strayed ever so slightly off course, heading into the throne room; the glorious decorations and throne, steeped in historical import, were stripped away on collision.
“To arms! To arms! Dammit, what’s going on?!”
The earsplitting blast had awoken the entire city from their peaceful slumber: the citizenry, cowering at the sudden invaders; the victorious troops, drunk on their streak of success; the high-ranking generals planning their next move; and the imprisoned royalty awaiting execution. People high and low alike panicked at the unanticipated arrival of unadulterated violence.
A knight in splendiferous armor led her troops into the throne room, only to discover herself unable to take in what had happened. She and all the other watchmen had been tasked by the king to prepare for an imperial attack, but this had not been within expectations.
Their plan had been to leave the skies clear to lure the enemy dragon knights and sirens into the castle, where they would ambush them. Afterward, they would call in their dragon knights lying in wait on the outskirts of town and achieve air superiority; her liege had boasted that this strategy would boost morale and improve their image amongst the inbound reinforcements.
The idea hinged on the assumption that the Empire would not employ the whole of its overwhelming might for some small rural nation. And in truth, past rebellions had often been cleaned up by nothing more than a few squadrons of dragon knights, so that assumption was not unfounded.
Alas, this was a new Empire. Perhaps the most notable factor was that the sitting Empress had a thrall who was quite the tactician, and that she entrusted him with a great deal of authority.
Though the knight had been ready for a nighttime assault, her mad dash to the scene only left her as confused as her juniors. What in the world could have caused such destruction? She was gifted in both magical and physical arts, and had trained to the point of outshining any man—but not even she could imagine a means of annihilation this severe.
At any rate, a dozen or so breaths was all the time it took for her to begin putting out the fire. Her nation planned to occupy this castle as its center of operations for the foreseeable future, and it was clear that three simultaneous explosions could not be an accident. The enemy was coming, and soon. Though their expectations of a drake raid had been off, that didn’t change what she had to do.
Just as she was about to chant a hex to summon water, though, a hand reached out from the billowing clouds of smoke. It was burnt to a crisp and had lost enough flesh to allow bone to touch open air. Was it some poor servant, desperately trying to escape death?
No, that couldn’t be it—the hand grabbed her face with strength unthinkable for all its injuries, clamping onto her like a vise as it pulled her into the smoke.
“Aaugh?!”
Her skull creaking, the knight screamed in pain as the inhuman monster that had abducted her made itself known. It was a charred corpse. Though its small frame was carbonized and guts spilled freely from its open midsection, the undead body continued to move.
Yet this was no zombie raised on an accursed site; the invitation into the smog had come from a creature incomparable. This wasn’t a matter of appearances, but of sheer presence. The thing exuded a dreadful pressure that was difficult to put into words. If anything, it was like death on two legs.
“Good evening, my lady, and good night.”
The neatly spoken words were in Rhinian. The woman had learned the imperial language alongside her mother tongue as a girl, on account of the Empire’s international importance. As such, she could glean the thorough education behind this kind, tender voice.
Along with it came a pain in her neck...and an overwhelming ecstasy that overwrote it. No mensch could resist the sweet pleasure that paralyzed her brain, blurred her vision, and reduced her thoughts to mush. If she had been able to endure it, though, perhaps she would have recalled the old teaching: when vampires feast, they confer unimaginable euphoria so their prey does not flee.
Drained of the lifeblood that ferried around her arcane power, the woman’s brimming will to fight left alongside her soul. Loss of blood alone was not enough to reduce her to a prune, but her fair skin grew fairer still, finally approaching a deathly white.
Drowning in rapture, her hands had instinctively wrapped around the figure’s neck, and the surface she clung to changed with each passing second. Burnt skin regained vigor like the earth after a hearty storm, and long locks of silky hair fell upon her face.
As the final drops keeping her alive left her body, a hand reached back to prop up her head. The knight’s final moments were spent staring into hauntingly beautiful eyes, dyed the red of pigeon blood.
[Tips] Theresea-class aerial conquestships are the Trialist Empire’s first series of mass-produced warships. Ever expandable, they were established for the express purpose of accommodating the Empire’s unique views on foreign relations. Made to house armies abroad during long campaigns and to maintain interior lines when on the defensive, the ships are more livable than any other on the planet. Furthermore, the lack of major wars during their service has made them famous as the only class of battleship to never have lost a single unit.
I was more than aware of my bad manners, but I licked my lips clean of blood and flashed the showiest smile I could manage—all in service of breaking this cowering man’s spirit.
Now, to recount the tale of how I ended up suicide bombing a castle only to begin cleaving through mobs of people like a musou game would be a very long story. Cutting to the chase, the whole of my circumstances had begun with Lady Cecilia’s failure to control herself.
Wounded and unresponsive, I had died on that fateful night by her fang. Apparently, she had been unable to endure the fragrance of fresh blood; I knew well what temptation she’d had to endure, what with my current state, so I didn’t have any mind to grill her for it.
That’s right: she drained me of my lifeblood, but imparted her own unto me in exchange. Unable to shoulder the guilt of taking my life, she had offered me her hand without hesitation, even knowing it would weaken her. A vampire could only convert a nonvampire by draining enough sanguine life force to kill and subsequently injecting their own into the target...and a vampire’s strength was interwoven with the purity of their blood. If this hadn’t been the case, the world would have been absolutely crawling with vampires. Personally, I thought the Sun God’s nature as impulsive yet not stupid shone through in places like this.
She had given me half of her blood—of a pure font that drew from the proud imperial lineage.
At any rate, I had become—I’d been turned into—a vampire. Whether I’d asked for it or not aside, there wasn’t any going back now.
The first few days had been chaos. Alfar of every kind absolutely lost it, and they all began to ignore me—fairies seemed to have an inherent distaste for vampires—except for the three that knew me best. Elisa had bawled for days on end, and Lady Agrippina had been too caught up in her own troubles to help. I couldn’t even remember how many times I’d lost heart back then.
Painful nights and burning mornings passed again and again, until one day I found myself propped up next to Celia—she forbade me from calling her Constance—as an imperial guard, meant to protect the heiress apparent to House Erstreich.
Trying to explain what followed would fill out more than a dozen paperbacks, so I digress. Anyway, here I was now as Erich von Wolfe, the imperial knight. World war was surely on the horizon, and I was to be the sharpened tip of the blade known as the imperial army.
I mean, come on. With how overtly this rebellion was being funded from without, it was clear that the usual regional disturbance wouldn’t be the end of things. If the goal was to stir up a few buffer states, this was a colossal waste of resources.
By my estimate, they’d dangled some shiny coins in front of some overly ambitious imbecile to incite this campaign, and planned to tear the newly formed state apart once the conquest was complete; the final result would be divided up between their own satellites to serve as food storage and a highway to the front lines. The area around here was featureless, and the ease of invasion definitely played a part in why it was targeted.
“Well then, my good royal prince,” I said. “First and foremost, allow me to speak on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty, Constance the Benevolent. I congratulate you on your early victories in this war.”
“Eek?!”
Had the man kept his cool, he would have been quite handsome; unfortunately, his features scrunched up with a pitiful scream. It appeared that he was afraid of this unaging thirteen-year-old face of mine. Or maybe it was that I’d just sucked his bodyguards dry and dumped their lifeless bodies at his feet.
Did you expect anything else? The opportunity had presented itself, so I had tossed my build out the window to become the epitome of vampirism. I ate clean hits to counterattack while dying, feasting on the splattering blood of my enemies to regain my health—I proudly abused every racial strength that came with my condition to create a preposterously unfair playstyle.
Unexpected as it had been, this was a gift I’d received from Celia—it’d be a waste not to use it. If a GM who only ever used the base rulebook hosted an anything-goes campaign for once, obviously I was going to want to build the sort of class that the game’s creators would softly object to as “Not Recommended.”
Where other vampires were about on par with the intelligent zombies in Hollywood movies, I laughed in their faces with the power of an arc villain in a shonen manga—being a drain tank that was nigh impervious to physical damage really made me feel the part.
Although she had left the church to take the throne, my master was also a devout believer in the Night Goddess, which trickled down to give me a bit of resistance to silver. So long as the sun was down, I was an absurdly tough tank who hit stupidly hard. Perfecting my build had been pretty easy, considering I had access to a good example to mimic.
“Come now, my lady is a sympathetic woman. So magnanimous is she that she has sent me here with forty-four fellow vampires under my command, and yet she refuses to turn this into an open feast for our flock.”
Some of the racial traits offered were ludicrous, and they made me perfect for these sorts of missions meant to scout out enemy forces. Not only was I hard to kill, but the need to feast on the souls that manifested themselves as warm fonts of nectar came with a side effect: vampires could peek into their prey’s memories by devouring their very being.
This was a high-level technique that could only be used by those comfortable with sucking and manipulating blood, making it lost knowledge among the modest imperial crowd. Those who subsisted on a glassful for centuries on end wouldn’t ever discover it, and it made sense that a populace that wrote their condition off as a curse would forget their true powers.
This may ring hollow from someone using it to great effect, but I could understand why they might want to blot it out of collective memory. If the world had known about this, vampires would never have been accepted by others.
As such, I did not loudly share the teachings of my mentor. Few vampires dared to be vampiric; if the grand dame of us all was going to stay silent on the matter, then I would follow in Lady Theresea’s wake and keep my mouth shut for those that were yet to come, only breaking my silence in the presence of my master.
“Alas, her mercy cannot be delivered unconditionally. Should our Empress come to find a terrible cockroach sullying the rose hedge she so lovingly nourished to bloom, even she would let out a disappointed sigh.”
But, well...okay, I’ll admit it. I’d gone a teensy bit too far.
I’d exploited my abilities so much during my time fighting on the front lines that I earned myself the title “Bloodsucker.” That is to say, imperial citizens no longer used the term to deride impatient fools who quenched their thirst at every turn; they used it to refer to me specifically.
It wasn’t as if I was going around causing mayhem in my spare time and leaving a mess after every meal. But when I bumped into someone while rounding a corner and the other person instantly fainted out of fear...yeah, that had gotten me down.
I wasn’t trying to excuse myself or anything, but I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t drinking more blood than I needed to. Okay, sure, sucking blood gave a lot of experience points, so I’d overdone it a little back in the day, but I hadn’t been struck down by divine retribution yet. That meant I was in the clear.
I’d even gone so far as to prepare a scenario where I didn’t have to resolve this by gorging! Though I must admit that the creation of this backup plan had been fueled in part by my desire to avoid feasting on men—no matter how handsome—in favor of pretty ladies.
“But the first order of business must be to find out how a pest made its way into Her Majesty’s carefully kept garden... Do you follow? If bugs can enter freely, then it won’t matter how many we squash, now will it?”
Yet my extreme abuse of my strengths ultimately allowed me to stay by my liege’s side despite my common birth; it also let me push through proposals like tonight’s ridiculous drakeraft bombing plan.
By the way, don’t let this sound like I’d thought it wouldn’t work. Many nations could handle a drake assault, but stopping a bomb propelled by gravity was much more difficult. Opposing a tremendous mass plummeting to the ground required a projectile just as heavy to collide with it, or an aerial attack strong enough to divert its course. By stuffing the things with vampires that wouldn’t die from being tossed around a little and spreading them throughout enemy territory, we had a vanguard unit behind enemy lines. Didn’t that sound strong?
Finally, the package came with a guided missile that was fairly accurate so long as the pilot held out until the end. In my opinion, this was a genius strategy that was ahead of its time by a long shot. Sure, the pilot would die, but they’d come back to life too—I saw no problem. A vampire’s lives were cheap: one death was hardly worth mentioning. Besides, every enemy killed was another life’s worth of blood to suck.
I couldn’t understand why the Graufrock officer had looked at my efficient stratagem and disparaged it as “the work of a demented mind.” How could he be so against it when my troops had—albeit with disbelief written plainly on their faces—accepted the idea?
“You see, Your Highness, I fancy myself something of Her Majesty’s yard keeper. As such, duty compels me to ask...”
Public perception aside, I had a job to do. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my fair share of thoughts on my transformation, but Celia continued to work hard for the nation despite her daily complaints about being unfit for the job; I’d stopped caring so long as I could be of use to her. I couldn’t become her husband, but I was her thrall: her one and only companion, bound by the deepest ties of blood. Unwed, people secretly spoke of her as the Virgin Empress, and I would happily dive into the most gruesome battlefields to stay by Her Majesty’s side.
Celia’s exact words had been, “I have made you mine, so I am now forever yours.” What kind of man wouldn’t accept his fate after a declaration like that?
“Are you a pest? Or perhaps...”
When all was said and done, I would be the last one beside her—no matter if she gave up the crown, returned to the monastery, or even laid herself bare before the burning sun.
She had taken responsibility for ending my life; what was wrong with my taking responsibility for being brought back to it?
I voiced a question I knew the answer to for her and her Empire as I bared my fangs.
Do whatever you want, pretty boy, I thought. Whether I sink these fangs into your soul or you sing like a pathetic little birdie, my job’s the same either way.
[Tips] Constance I, the Benevolent Empress, is one of the few women to rule the Trialist Empire of Rhine. Though her religious background initially stirred fears of favoritism, she displayed uncharacteristically decisive leadership in the short- to midterm after ascending to the throne while maintaining traditional Erstreich excellence in long-term planning, making her highly popular.
It is said she once reprised the throne after her predecessor pleaded, “Just one term. Think of this as personal charity.” She has attempted to renounce worldliness and return to monastic life at every turn since, but her reliability and inability to say no to those in need has culminated in eight full terms of service—the longest out of any imperial monarch.
Furthermore, she is the only ruler in the nation’s history to not marry for political purposes, earning herself the moniker of the Virgin Empress. In this sense, she is a troublemaker of sorts; any grievance levied at her unwed status is always crushed under the weight of her tremendous contributions to the country.
A lone noblewoman sat enjoying the cool air of a moonlit balcony. Resting in a chic garden chair, she let the comfortable midsummer breeze flow by as she watched the nearly full moon.
She was the gentle rays of the Mother Goddess’s light come to life. Her willowy limbs combined with a contour neither too big nor too small to produce the personification of motherly love. Perched atop her slender neck was a tender face dotted with two bloodred eyes hidden beneath downcast curtains of lashes that culminated in indescribable beauty. To say the veil of night had been cut out to fashion her hair would be to discredit the charm of the deep-black braid flowing over her shoulder. Wrapped in garments dyed deep blue and steeped in melancholy, it was as if she were a waning gibbous moon herself, lamenting her own decay.
The lady completely ignored the wine glass by her side, instead fixing her gaze upon her left hand. Her skin was a fresh snow, undiscovered by the world, but all her attention went to the crimson jewel adorning her ring finger.
It was a peculiar ring. Setting aside the intricate engravings on the mystarille base, the large gem fitted on it was something not even the most noteworthy merchants could hope to appraise. Delicate yet daring, the oval stone shone a deeper hue than blood but refused to dip into shades of black—its color was truly difficult to describe. It was neither the vivid scarlet of ruby nor the understated tone of garnet; perhaps the closest comparison would be a red spinel, but even that was not the same. Though the mechanisms were mysterious, this jewel shimmered at regular intervals, regardless of its wearer’s movements or the position of the moon and stars.
The woman simply stared at its unceasing, rhythmic pulses and let out a captivated sigh. Time passed—how long, none could say—and eventually, the beat began to quicken.
Her wistful eyes perked up and she let out a gasp of joy. Just before she could cry out in bliss, it arrived: a single bat. No bigger than her palm, the flying critter was rather cute. One bat then turned to two, then three, until a massive cauldron had silently formed, landing by the woman’s side.
Having gathered in an instant, the bats swirled together like a whirlwind, at last disappearing when they converged at a single point. Marvelously, the tornado blacker than the depths of night dissipated, leaving a single silhouette behind.
He was death on two legs.
The boy covered every inch of his body in black; a simple longsword and a menacing black zweihander hung from his hips. Everything from his shoes to his cape was standard jager apparel, and yet he represented ill omen for any who laid eyes upon him. Though his pale face seemed almost childlike, it evoked the gruesome presence of finality; he did not hide the long fangs protruding from his lips, but rather flaunted the beast within by airing the odor of blood that had soaked in.
Fear him and tremble, for the Bloodsucker shall appear before the naughty children of the world. The children of the city grew up learning to behave to avoid the monsters in their closets and this monster on the streets.
His golden hair was the shade of a faded moon, and he’d tied it together in the same way as the lady sitting in the chair. Slowly and casually, he made his way to her side and removed his cloak, sinking down on one knee.
“I have returned as you have commanded, my lady.”
His voice was like a midnight breeze soaking into the tranquil air. Soft and caressing, his timbre drew out the woman’s smile; she laid a hand on his bowed head.
“You have served me well, my loyal thrall. What of the final outcome?”
The knight kept his head still as he reached into his pocket to produce a bundle of cloth. It unwound itself to reveal two rings...and two lockets of hair, each a different color.
“As you requested, this is from the king in question, and his brother, the prince.”
The rings doubled as seals: they were proof of the holders’ authority, invested in them by the Empire many generations removed. The lockets by their side belonged to the royal brothers who had worn them. What that suggested needed not be said.
“I see. Well done. Your Majesty, Your Highness, I welcome you to my Empire. Do enjoy your stay.” The woman folded the cloth back up, placed it onto the table, and then immediately lost all interest—instead, she turned to her servant and smiled. “Truly, a job well done. We may end the formalities here, Erich.”
“As you will.”
With his master’s permission, the imperial knight Erich von Wolfe rose, returning the smile of Her Imperial Majesty, Constance the Benevolent.
“And?” the Empress asked. “How did it go?”
“Resistance wasn’t anything too notable. The drakeraft bombing seemed rather effective. If I can find some more subordinates that can come close to matching my regenerative abilities, I suspect we will be able to finish sieging a middling castle within an hour. I’d like to ask to produce more specialty drakerafts and commence training immediately. Fire really does sting, so it’s important to get the pilots used to those conditions.”
“I see. I still have my reservations about your methods, but I suppose it will do if it proved effective. I shall submit a formal proposal at the next convention.” Cecilia nodded somewhat quizzically as Erich took a seat, oblivious to the fact that his troops would have gone blue in the face and pleaded against the tactic’s mass adoption had they been present. “I wonder if this will be the end...”
“Almost certainly not,” the Bloodsucker sighed, looking up at the dim moon. “Judging from their supplies and...more personal sources of intelligence, I’d guess they have a handful of backup plans still waiting to be sprung. This is shaping up to be quite the dreadful war.”
“Is that so...”
Had any man in the Empire heard their Benevolent Empress’s forlorn mumble, they would have laid down their lives to dispel her sorrow. Whether this constituted a compliment or not was dubious, but there was surely no woman in all the lands who looked so spellbinding when sad.
“And here I thought I might finally resign from leading house and nation both...”
“It’s all gone up in flames. Fate truly is unpredictable.”
This was the real root of all of Her Majesty’s grief.
To set the scene, Cecilia had been feverishly pulling political strings behind closed doors. She’d planned to abdicate without incident and hand the crown to a promising Baden lad—expecting fierce resistance, of course—and force the reins of House Erstreich upon a hedonistic but otherwise talented member of her clan. Had all gone well, she would have made her way to the monastery too swiftly for anyone to get a word in edgewise, but alas.
She had served for a long time. Not only was she popular with the masses, but she had a talent for motivating others to do their best. The number of retainers who were willing to offer their lives for her sake were uncountable; her charisma was astonishing.
As a result, she’d managed to ride changing political climates to escape the seat of torture on several occasions, but could not manage to step down as the leader of her clan. One hundred noble families had come together, kneeling before her to plead: “As national crisis cedes, the people need their Benevolent Empress to soothe their weary souls.”
Cecilia hadn’t been able to refuse; she was not as willing to cast away as much as her father had been.
Now, her scheming had been reduced to ashes. Here she had committed her dear servant to spearhead the offensive in hopes of settling this war quickly...but the ambitions of a rival superpower would not falter after one decisive battle. They, too, had spent centuries participating in a game of pokes through their satellites; crushing one or two pieces in the opening act would do nothing to stop their overall strategy.
How could it? If their dreams had ridden on one lonesome plan, they never would have started this conflict at all. The rules of diplomacy dictated that swords could only be drawn when one desire took tangible form: that of victory, no matter the cost.
“Will it be long?” Cecilia asked.
“...To return with yet more worries for Your Majesty to ponder is my greatest shame. I apologize for my incompetence.”
“Don’t be like that, Erich. I am not so ridiculous as to imagine you might win the war by yourself.”
The Age of Gods had long since passed, and a lone hero could no longer determine the outcome of war. This thrall of hers could bring home victory after victory should she throw him into the fray, but he could only offer domination on the scale of single battles, not a whole campaign. Dragon knights and knights were powerful pieces that could dictate the state of an ehrengarde board, but they alone could not break open a defensive position; the game would have crumbled from the outset if they could.
“Still,” Cecilia grumbled, “it would seem you’ve yet to overcome your reckless streak. Your odor is pungent.”
“Huh? Ah, well, heh... You asked me to lead the charge, Your Majesty. I may have gotten a bit carried away.”
The Empress knew how to move her pieces. Here was a powerful, irreplaceable unit, but no amount of care would allow him to shine should she not place him on the board—even if that risked his demise. Even so, this reckless piece had a habit of going too far. Vampiric noses were second to none when it came to sniffing out blood, and this scent was positively overwhelming.
Usually, an imperial vampire would never use their fangs to feed. That was their culture, their manners, their dignity. Yet this fool brazenly feasted like a feral beast, shamelessly declaring that “using your fangs is more efficient,” and that “drinking a lot leads to growth.” That very same growth was how he’d come to employ extraordinary powers, but he generally forwent them in favor of simply ignoring his own death to solve matters with brute force.
Erich’s combat revolved around the idea that his enemies died, but he would resurrect: he simply traded his own life for theirs. The tactic only grew more villainous the stronger his opponent. After all, he began every fight like a normal swordsman aiming for a clean win, only to throw safety to the wayside at the last moment; those used to dealing with normal fighters failed to keep up with the unexpected development and always fell into his trap. Worst of all, he casually came back to life with a face that screamed, Huh? You’re dead already? Aww, poor thing. What could you call this but pure villainy?
Even when facing an undead opponent, none could match a vampire who had the audacity to partake in regular sustenance.
Cecilia sighed. This was why the children of the city cowered under their sheets at the name Bloodsucker.
“Your neck,” she commanded wearily.
The thrall’s face lit up and he took to his feet so that he could undo his high collar. Discolored skin like that of a corpse clearly gleamed under the moonlight. The particular fragrance of blood, knowable only to vampires, wafted up from his veins below; Cecilia could feel drool build up in her mouth as she revealed her fangs.
Vampires did not prey on their own—with the exception of a vampiric master and thrall.
To drain another’s essence carried meaning beyond a reprieve from the Sun God’s eternal curse of thirst; it involved taking part of another’s soul through their lifeblood and turning it into one’s own power. Turned vampires who feasted therefore diluted the gift of their master, eventually fated to become an independent being in their own right.
There were two ways to prevent this: the master could give new blood...or take it.
The means by which a vampire could drain their thralls of alien nectar in order to preserve their bondage were well documented. Yet those of the Empire had come to know shame in the act, and the custom was all but lost; in fact, they had developed a culture in which the independence of a thrall was no longer a matter of any importance.
However, this vampiric slave merrily exposed his neck, and for her part, his master obliged.
This balcony was strictly private, and so the Benevolent Empress let her hidden instincts take hold without hesitation. She brandished her long, pearly daggers and sank them deep into her servant’s neck.
Delight danced across her mouth. The boy’s grand arcane energy blended into the sanguine drink and slid down without resistance—nay, he actively offered it to his liege. Despite thinning his own potential might, the act of being preyed upon caused him to shiver in euphoria.
No other ritual could intertwine two people as deeply as this: she had split him her life and he returned to split her his. Every instance thickened their pact, returning their link to its most perfect state time and time again.
When Erich had attained vampiric strength, he had realized that someday, sometime, this relationship between master and thrall would end.
At that moment, he had made up his mind: he’d persuaded her to allow him to continue venerating his one and only Empress. Long and passionate, his speech had broken down Cecilia’s will to resist, and they now hid away to share moments like these from time to time.
In the end, the lady and servant were not so terribly different.
They say he who has fallen in love is doomed to be weak of heart—or perhaps it ought to be he who has fallen from grace? At any rate, Erich was still young for a vampire, and presenting his open neck only further bedeviled his already-warped sensibilities. Cecilia squeezed her shoulders, trembling in delight as she fought off similar levels of pleasure.
It was difficult to tell who was the master between the two of them, and this was after he’d gone out of his way to give her his magically frozen heart. Admittedly, it had been a calculated move to remove one of his only weaknesses, but still.
“...Erich, tell me the truth. Have you been acting recklessly just so that I would do this again?”
“Please. As if I would dare to trouble Your Imperial Majesty for such trifling affairs as my own gratification.”
“My goodness, how brazenly this thrall of mine speaks... Allow me to partake in a bit more.”
“Of course. Drink to your heart’s content.”
The Empress removed her fangs for a moment to question him, but the knight was ready to hold his position until the bitter end. Realizing that she was being teased, she puffed up her cheeks like a young girl; he laughed, his crystalline heart shimmering on her finger.
[Tips] Vampires can only be permanently killed by divine miracle, mortal wounds under sunlight, and silver that pierces the heart.
Here was a man at the end of his life.
He was the son of a knight, like so many others in the Empire. As the first son, he had been expected to inherit the title; he lived up to this expectation and more, winning the rank of imperial guardsman. The recognition and praise he’d won bolstered his house’s standing, and he took his liege’s fourth daughter in a nearly unprecedented marriage; they had children, but he continued his loyal service whenever he could.
Three and twenty years spent guarding the crown; eight and twenty more spent training new recruits. He had survived countless battlefields, and his efforts had culminated in a badge of honor bestowed by Her Imperial Majesty herself. Even after ceding the house to his son and retiring from the jagers, he continued to hone the blade: he swung his sword hundreds of times a day, every single day. The man was the epitome of a born warrior.
Now that his son had passed on the torch, if his grandson continued to faithfully serve the Empire, his exemplary efforts would be foundation enough for their clan to potentially ascend the social ladder. Yet even this champion could not escape the fate of all those born as mensch.
He had no regrets, no lingering desire. Most were lucky to live fifty years, and here he was over seventy, having witnessed the birth of his great-great-grandchild—this was a blessing greater than he thought due. Complaining would surely furrow the brows of the gods above.
One day, the hero recognized the end was near. During his daily training, a pain he’d never felt before shot through his elbow. Pain only arose from mistakes in form: he had learned that overusing one’s wrists would stress the elbows when he was still a little boy.
In other words, the strike that he’d swung perfectly for over fifty years had been off. Recognizing this as the War God recalling him for his final spell of rest, the man prepared to see his life to its end.
He sorted out his personal effects littered about his retirement manor—his wife had long since gone on ahead—packing away anything of value with names of who was to inherit them and burning anything else in the courtyard. Though he hesitated over whether he should leave his diary, after consideration, he decided its contents were too embarrassing to be read for a man past seventy and burned it with the rest of his garbage.
His will was something he’d written as a soldier; he could no longer even remember what it said. Throwing it away, he renewed it to reflect his current circumstances, and since he was already writing for once, he penned dozens of letters to his loved ones to be delivered post mortem.
These preparations took the man exactly ten days; on the eleventh morning, he finally collapsed, no longer able to get out of bed.
A terrific commotion followed. Visitor after visitor from the families he’d befriended came to see him, not to mention his own kin; even the current head of his master’s house stopped by with a present. He said his farewells to each of them, and they in turn tried to cheer him up, telling him not to say such things—these remarks were difficult for him to bear.
As a young man, he had been unable to imagine such a scene. His whole life, he had been sure that his death would occur on some nameless battlefield for Her Majesty’s sake.
Tired from the never-ending guests, the man told his grandson that he would like to live out his final days in peace, and the new head of household officially stopped the reception. Alone in his room, he would have a servant check in on him thrice a day and see to his needs if he was still alive—starting tomorrow, he would be afforded a moment of tranquility.
However, despite what he told his grandson, the man knew that he would not see the next sunrise. He had no definite reason for his conviction—the instincts of a man who’d lived an entire life simply told him so.
There was little left to ponder for a heavy body laying in bed: it simply hurt. Beset by disease, his body creaked as if to reclaim its due for seven decades of use; the stray arrows he’d taken could hardly compare.
Just as the end began to sink in, a memory surfaced—one of an old friend he’d known in the imperial guard. He’d been an old hat by the time the man had been promoted, and his terrifying epithet had been passed around in hushed whispers. He ought to still be alive, but he hadn’t come to visit. Once, when they’d been sharing drinks, he’d joked that the man’s dying moments would surely be a sight to see. Laughing, he’d said that he’d come just to gawk with those eyes, so vividly red—so brilliantly rich that the man had wanted them for himself...
Suddenly, the aging hero heard a rasp of wood on wood. He glanced at the source of the sound to find the closed window open. The curtains swayed gently in a passing breeze; it was clear this was no near death hallucination.
“Hey there.”
The man leapt at the voice. Force of habit bade him to strike at voices that came from inconceivable places at inconceivable times. Every jager was ready for a surprise attack, and even as a withered old man, he refused to forgo the trusty sword under his pillow. Shocking his atrophied body to life, he unsheathed and swung his beloved blade with mastery most would not see in their lifetimes.
However, his transcendent swing did not strike true. The wilting branches he called wrists had been caught in a small palm.
“Is that any way to greet an old brother in arms that’s come to see you?”
“Y-You’re—But...”
“You never change, Florence. Hopefully your taste in liquor hasn’t changed either.”
The man’s attack had been unthinkable for a man his age: a normal assassin would have lost their head. Yet the familiar fellow before him had casually caught it, jingling a bottle of whiskey in his free hand.
He had the face of a young child, complete with the trademark androgynous roundness of youth that took the knight a moment to recognize as a boy’s. Reminiscent of a fish’s bones, his light golden braid was, as ever, the hue of the gleaming moon.
But what drew the attention most of all were his scarlet eyes. Brighter than the freshest blood, one look would etch that hue onto a soul forever.
He hadn’t changed one bit: not his small frame, undersized for his uniform; not his two swords, one clean and simple, the other huge and horrifying; not the hair that made young ladies bite their handkerchiefs in envy; and not the twinkling eyes that others coveted like gems. He hadn’t changed from when the man had first entered the imperial guard, from when he’d saved him from an enemy strangling him on the ground, and from when he’d offered a toast at his retirement ceremony.
Of course he hadn’t: Erich the Bloodsucker did not age.
The warrior’s strike had been as impressive and taxing as in his prime, and all strength abandoned him at once; it felt as if his soul might follow suit. This unexpected guest of his may well have read his mind; laying back in bed, he sighed.
“I ‘never change,’ do I, Bloodsucker? I’m an old coot—past seventy. What, are you mocking me, you invariable brat?”
“As if I’d mock you, old friend. You really haven’t changed in the slightest from the days we spent drinking in pubs and picking fights with common thugs whenever we were out of uniform.”
The moonlit Bloodsucker then announced that he would help himself to the man’s glassware, flipping over the cup at his bedside as he grumbled about there only being one. The satisfying sound of a cork popping free was followed by the trickling of whiskey; once in the cup, the liquor was bathed in heavenly light that gave it a moonstruck quality.
It was as if a panacea was floating in the glass.
Or rather, perhaps this truly was the ultimate cure. Whenever the man had broken a bone or eaten an arrow, this had been the magic drug to cradle him to bed and ease his suffering.
“Here,” the boy said, handing him the cup. “You used to like this, didn’t you? I haven’t forgotten.”
“How many decades ago do you think that was? This cheap crap might as well be moonshine.”
Perhaps the stinging odor of alcohol triggered a sense of nostalgia, because he reverted from his habitual elderly speech to the diction and cadence of a fearless young jager. His voice was no longer raspy, his tongue no longer wavered, and the missing teeth that had altered his pronunciation ceased to bother him.
“Hey, you were the one that chose it. I tried to sell you on my favorite brand, but I distinctly remember you picked this because we could drink five times as much for the same price.”
“Shut the fuck up. Knights get paid in glory, but we gotta pay for everything in cash. You know how much it cost to keep the horses, and train up new troops, and keep all the servants paid? And my old man was always ‘tradition this’ and ‘tradition that,’ so I had to fix that old shithole manor... I had my estate’s taxes plus a jager’s salary and it still wasn’t enough.”
Reminiscing on his days of penury, the man took a sip. Though this drink was produced in a temple to the Wine God, the lousy spirits lacking any semblance of quality control were so perfectly in sync with his memories that he couldn’t help but laugh.
The booze is the same. This twerp’s the same. I’m the only one that’s changed.
“It’s good... It’s so damn good—just like the good ol’ days. But I... I’m rotting.”
A tear rolled out of the man’s eye—not from pain or malady, but an indescribable sadness that wet his tear ducts for the first time since the passing of his wife.
The Bloodsucker neither laughed nor consoled; he simply took the glass out of the man’s trembling hands and took a gulp, his face scrunching up immediately after.
“This awful flavor is the same as it always was, and you’re the same as you always were. You’ll shine as brightly as ever no matter how many years pass.”
“I... I’ve changed. Look at me! I can’t ride a horse, and I can’t get out of my damn house, let alone march in armor. I can’t even swing my sword! And you—you eternal Bloodsucker—you’re telling me I’m the same?”
“I apologize if I came off poorly, old friend. But you know...” The undying vampire downed the rest of the whiskey. “As someone who’s forgotten what it means to die, the way you fight hard for your lives until the bitter end will forever remain youthful and radiant in my eyes—I envy you.”
Pouring out another cupful, the Bloodsucker quietly said, “I was supposed to be the same.” He took another few sips and pushed the glass back into the old man’s hands. “...You know what? If it’s you asking, I wouldn’t mind splitting my blood. Do you want to come with me?”
“Wha...What?”
“Don’t you remember? I think it was before a battle. You asked me if it was true that dying by a vampire’s fangs is more pleasure than pain.”
A faded memory resurfaced in the man’s aged mind; perhaps he had said something along those lines. If he recalled, he’d been trying to taunt the impervious bastard for eating arrows and spells like nothing; after that, he may or may not have sarcastically mentioned that he wished he could have a body like that...maybe.
“You may have forgotten, but I never will—that’s what it means to be vampiric. I even remember how you nearly died in the battle that followed and made a sickening comment that you wouldn’t mind so long as I was the one to take your life.”
“What?! Y-You’re lying! This is slander!”
“As if,” the Bloodsucker said, shaking his head. “Why would I bother lying to you, of all people?”
Though the man still professed his innocence, the memory sprang back to life with vivid detail. He’d been ready to die at any moment, but a painful end had still scared him. And so, he’d figured that it might have been nice to at least be seen off by an enchanting pair of rubies.
It hadn’t been anything more than a dumb joke, but the vampire had faithfully carried it with him all this time. Thumbing the dwindling bottle of whiskey, he fixed his gaze on the sloshing liquid inside and asked quietly, “Does it hurt?”
“...It does.”
The man did not hesitate in his answer. His unaging friend shot him a sideways glance that caused him to swallow hard, and not only because of the liquor in his mouth. He knew what was being asked of him. Wordless, the Bloodsucker was avoiding the ignobility of putting the question into definite form.
Eventually, the man came to a conclusion: he lightly shook his head with the stinging aftertaste of cheap alcohol still lingering on his tongue. Subdued as it was, his refusal was certain, like a blade slicing through the last of his worldly attachments.
No response followed; the sound of a cork recapping the bottle was the only proof of recognition.
The man opened the collar of his nightgown. Still laying back, he closed his eyes, intertwined his fingers atop his chest, and waited with inaudible breaths.
He hoped his wrinkled neck would do.
At last, he heard the bottle placed on his nightstand alongside the emptied cup.
And finally...
Dawn broke. The man’s servant came to check on him, only to find he’d passed; she hurried to call his family, which caused a commotion even grander than when he’d first collapsed. They were all very sad to lose a dear member of kin, of course, but what shocked them was that he’d departed with a great smile on his face and a mysterious wound on his neck.
Although everyone was in a panic about the possibility of foul play, they still went through the steps of confirming his testament and planning the funeral slowly but surely. Calling upon a notary from the main household to bear witness, they opened his last will still distracted by the potential murder, only to make a peculiar discovery.
At the very end of the document was one final clause: should his cause of death be blood drawn from his neck, none were to investigate further.
[Tips] Though vampiric fangs are known to confer great pleasure while feeding, they can also induce other states of mind, such as tranquility.
I’ve been left behind again.
That was all I could think as I stared at the small grave in front of me. The graves in this rural canton were taken care of, but they were starting to decay. Covered in moss, the tombstones only retained their shape, yet even that was not eternal.
The letters etched here spelled out names that I loved—and that I resented to an equal degree. They spelled the names of those who had left me behind.
Even now, I couldn’t forget these names and the faces that came with them. We had lived together, laughed together, and yet they all had left me.
I’d been much younger then, and I’d clung to them. I’d begged for them to let me have my way. I’d pleaded for them to indulge me just once.
“Don’t leave me,” the bloodsucking monster had cried.
Yet not a single one did. Not my father, nor my mother, nor any of my brothers—not even Margit, and not even Mika.
These had been the same people who had listened to my dreams and put their lives and livelihoods at stake for me. Yet my last request that they stay forever by my side was too much for them to bear.
I understood, if only in a logical sense. They’d lived to the fullest, giving form to a life that they were satisfied with. To cling to their ankles and beg them not to go was no better than a maniacal fan asking an author not to write a conclusion to their story. The people I loved had all been strong: they had known what it meant to live, and they had gone out on their own terms.
I still had Celia. We belonged to one another; I would never wish for the release of death so long as I had my inseparable, beloved master at my side.
But being left behind made me so unbearably lonely.
Today, I saw off yet another dear friend. Invited back to the heavens, he was resting easy in the gods’ laps. Not a single person thus far had humored me—how many rejections in a row did this make? Was I really that unpopular?
Sad and depressed and empty, I always ended up coming back here, to the site of my most heart-wrenching farewells. After this, I would probably travel far to the north to visit a grave buried under the polar snow. Work would pile up if I took too long, not to mention how I’d worry my Empress, but I couldn’t help myself.
Or maybe I’d stay here until the morning, and use that as an excuse to stay under someone else’s roof. I could take shelter until the sun set, spending time with the living memories of those I loved.
That would be blissful...but alas, I had become a vampire in the truest sense. I broke my heart at the one-sided feeling of abandonment; I felt pure joy seeing what my strong, beautiful family and friends had left in their wakes; and I was always fighting the impulse to drag them into this same hell for leaving me. I didn’t need to think twice to know that not even they would forgive me if I did.
We truly were pitiful creatures, us vampires. While I had fought the masked lunatic—I didn’t want to think about the fact that we were now technically related—I’d been jealous of how ridiculously powerful they’d seemed, but now in their shoes, I knew the suffering that accompanied this way of life. How did everyone else live with this crushing heartache?
...I supposed I wasn’t one to talk. Not only did I have Celia, but I had hobbies to occupy myself with. It wasn’t as if the last of those I personally knew had passed; that I could soak in this depressed stupor as if the world were ending betrayed my privileged position.
I think I’ll go home after all. I’d take a quick trip up north to enjoy the snow and see the beautiful buildings, and then call it a day.
“Welcome home, Dear Brother.”
After indulging in my tasteless trip to my heart’s content, I returned to my manor only to be greeted by my sister.
“Oh, hey, Elisa.”
The girl hanging around my estate in the corner of Berylin was just like me: unchanging. Her long, soft, golden hair was still exactly like our mother’s, and her amber eyes came straight from our father. Having stopped growing in her late teens, she still had the young contour of a girl; her lavish dress was a dark black that invoked images of mourning, perhaps meant to match my own attire.
Despite holing up in her College atelier most of the time, Elisa occasionally came to visit me like this. She never contacted me, nor did we schedule these meetings; whenever I was down, she simply appeared without warning. Though she denied it, I was absolutely positive that the alfar she still kept in her company were sneaking around and updating her on my condition.
“Would you care for a drink, Dear Brother? I’ve received a splendid wine, you see.”
“Is that so? Thank you for coming to share. I’d be happy to join you.”
Elisa took my hand with a refined, cheerful smile, but my heart brimmed with regret whenever we met. I’d come to enjoy my life as a vampire, but I hadn’t meant to drag her along with me.
Changelings were fairies born into a fleshy shell. She had arisen from an alf idolizing mortal life, and just as she had lived as a mensch...she should have been able to die as one. Yet she had stopped aging to match me: she was neither truly human nor truly fey.
Once, overcome with guilt, I’d told her that she didn’t have to do this for me.
Smiling, she answered: “I shall stay with you until you decide our time is up.”
Maybe I was overthinking things, but...no, let’s not go there.
Both Celia and I had grown too vampiric for our own sakes, but we were still far from genuine immortality. One day, we would no longer be able to bear our vampirism—our lives—and we would return this gift to the Sun God. It was an inevitability. Eventually, my ever-expanding tomorrow would tear down the tower of yesterday that I had built.
But for now, I would let those who lived alongside me pamper me.
That said...I really wished Elisa would accept Celia’s invitations to dinner, even just once. I was catching serious flak for it, and I couldn’t bear to see Celia sad about how my sister seemed to hate her.
I tried to bring it up with Elisa, but she answered with a terrifying smile that shut me up instantly. Maybe I was still young after all...
[Tips] Among the “undying,” most realize their true nature at the same time they realize what it means to lack a predetermined end.
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