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Crushedbyheels
Star
- Joined
- Oct 10, 2011
Baron Alvarek von Ruskell walked to his room under a heavy black cloud. His arrival in the baronetcy had been disturbing, more than anything else.
He had never taken any steps to hide that he was a vampire. The first century that went by without an alteration in his youthful appearance would have made hiding it impossible, really, and he had been one of the Lords of the Night for almost three hundred and fifty years now. He had ruled Ruskall Baronetcy since his father had died, of natural causes, apparently unconcerned that his heir was "Undead."
He was tall and broad shouldered, with a thickly muscled chest. He'd been sired by the Duchess Kalefra when he was just twenty five, although the years had told on his face even though he didn't age. There was a scar on his left cheek where a werewolf had clawed him, and as youthful as his face looked every one of his three plus centuries could be read in his eyes. They were old eyes. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail behind his head. He wore a black cloak and pants with a red shirt and ruff, his ruby and gold pendant of office hanging prominently from his neck.
In his own lands the people, rich and poor alike, were quite happy to see him. His arrival meant one of three things; he was either there on some business having to do with the running if his lands, he was there to make sure some threat (such as werewolves or particularly persistent bandits) was dealt with once and for all, or he was there looking for food.
The second occurrence was less common now. The incident with the scar had taught him that even his considerable powers weren't enough to protect the entirety of his lands by himself. He now employed a large, well trained and well equipped body of soldiers that was capable of handling most problems and smart enough to send for him when they weren't.
The third incident was the one occasion where his presence was unwelcome. It was known throughout his lands he never killed those he fed on, and that he made love to them as he did so with the kind of skill only three hundred guests of practice could produce. The girls always left with a fat purse of gold and his personal promise of protection, in return for the blood he had taken, not their bodies. He refused to think if them as common whores; every woman he chose was a woman he had found special. So women were always pleased to see him, particularly young women; their fathers usually detested him on sight. He could hardly blame them.
In short, the land he ruled was happy and prosperous, and his race wasn't something that came up. Upon arriving in his friend's baronetcy he had found things to be....different.
There was a darkness here, a fear. Rather than speak with him people hurried away. No one would meet his eye. And if the few who were to terrified to fled him were to be believed, there wasn't a young woman in the entire land. There were certainly none walking around in public.
At dinner he had avoided discussing the state of the kingdom with his old friend and fellow vampire, the local baron. The terrified looks and actions of the servants said enough. Instead of wine at dinner they had virgin's blood. He carefully had avoided asking where it came from.
He had gone to bed that night with a heavy heart when he found her tied on the bed, her ass swaying in the air. She looked like she had been through three or four circles of hell. He cried out in alarm and ran to her, ripping apart her bonds with the strength of the undead and looked her over. Bruised and battered. Worse, broken. Something in the beautiful young girl's mind had snapped long ago.
Healing magic did not come easily to the dead, but he knew enough to mend the most recent cuts and bruises and fade the newer scars.
"What have they done to you?" he said softly.
He had never taken any steps to hide that he was a vampire. The first century that went by without an alteration in his youthful appearance would have made hiding it impossible, really, and he had been one of the Lords of the Night for almost three hundred and fifty years now. He had ruled Ruskall Baronetcy since his father had died, of natural causes, apparently unconcerned that his heir was "Undead."
He was tall and broad shouldered, with a thickly muscled chest. He'd been sired by the Duchess Kalefra when he was just twenty five, although the years had told on his face even though he didn't age. There was a scar on his left cheek where a werewolf had clawed him, and as youthful as his face looked every one of his three plus centuries could be read in his eyes. They were old eyes. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail behind his head. He wore a black cloak and pants with a red shirt and ruff, his ruby and gold pendant of office hanging prominently from his neck.
In his own lands the people, rich and poor alike, were quite happy to see him. His arrival meant one of three things; he was either there on some business having to do with the running if his lands, he was there to make sure some threat (such as werewolves or particularly persistent bandits) was dealt with once and for all, or he was there looking for food.
The second occurrence was less common now. The incident with the scar had taught him that even his considerable powers weren't enough to protect the entirety of his lands by himself. He now employed a large, well trained and well equipped body of soldiers that was capable of handling most problems and smart enough to send for him when they weren't.
The third incident was the one occasion where his presence was unwelcome. It was known throughout his lands he never killed those he fed on, and that he made love to them as he did so with the kind of skill only three hundred guests of practice could produce. The girls always left with a fat purse of gold and his personal promise of protection, in return for the blood he had taken, not their bodies. He refused to think if them as common whores; every woman he chose was a woman he had found special. So women were always pleased to see him, particularly young women; their fathers usually detested him on sight. He could hardly blame them.
In short, the land he ruled was happy and prosperous, and his race wasn't something that came up. Upon arriving in his friend's baronetcy he had found things to be....different.
There was a darkness here, a fear. Rather than speak with him people hurried away. No one would meet his eye. And if the few who were to terrified to fled him were to be believed, there wasn't a young woman in the entire land. There were certainly none walking around in public.
At dinner he had avoided discussing the state of the kingdom with his old friend and fellow vampire, the local baron. The terrified looks and actions of the servants said enough. Instead of wine at dinner they had virgin's blood. He carefully had avoided asking where it came from.
He had gone to bed that night with a heavy heart when he found her tied on the bed, her ass swaying in the air. She looked like she had been through three or four circles of hell. He cried out in alarm and ran to her, ripping apart her bonds with the strength of the undead and looked her over. Bruised and battered. Worse, broken. Something in the beautiful young girl's mind had snapped long ago.
Healing magic did not come easily to the dead, but he knew enough to mend the most recent cuts and bruises and fade the newer scars.
"What have they done to you?" he said softly.
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