Through the dense haze of coal smoke and steam, a figure emerges—a vampire of stark contrasts, his hair a tapestry of red and black braids, pointy ears peeking through, and eyes like the rubies that once adorned the crown of an ancient king. This is Hajun, his stride confident yet discreet as he navigates the labyrinthine alleyways of New Babel.
The city is a maelstrom of old-world opulence and new-age industry, the gothic towers casting oppressive shadows while pipeworks groan like beasts in labor. Hajun unfurls the high collar of his weathered coat against the biting smog, passing under flickering gaslights ensnared in brass grasps.
The occult market he seeks throbs to the beat of an otherworldly heart. Stalls adorned with artifacts of questionable origin and sellers with eyes hungry for coin punctuate the twisting market bazaar. Hajun listens, his preternatural senses sifting through the din.
"Curse-laden amulets, freshly plundered from the catacombs!" a hawker to his left bellows, vying for the attention of superstitious collectors.
"Elixirs of the night, brewed to mask your presence from prying eyes!" a potion seller to his right whispers, offering bottled shadows in exchange for secrets or silver.
Hajun moves on, the call of his quest singing louder than the market's cacophony. Ahead, a table of grotesque trophies—ghoulish totems and bone trinkets, and among them, like a raven among doves, the blackened fingerbone of Gorron. Its presence is a discordant note, thrumming with ancient energy.
He approaches the seller, a grizzled man with a patchwork of scars and tales etched into his weathered face. Hajun inquires, never revealing more than necessary. "This relic, the fingerbone... where didst thou uncover such dark treasure?"
A flash of greed flickers in the seller's eyes before being smothered by caution. He leans in, voice tinged with superstition. "Outside the city limits, where the veil be thin and the dead speak in hushed tones. I found it 'mongst the roots of a bone-white tree. A place best left undisturbed, but men like us, we heed not such warnings, aye?"
Curiosity mingled with trepidation courses through Hajun. He knows the gravity of the relic before him, for the fingerbone is not just a key to a darker history, but a beacon to what lies ahead. In this moment, within the thronged bazaar of forbidden wares, the journey of Hajun becomes entwined with the fate of New Babel.
Hajun bought the relic, and left.
The market breathes around him, a living entity, whispering of power, and shadow, and things man was not meant to meddle with. Yet meddle he must, for the resurgent cult of Gorron beckons, its siren call resonating within the marrow of its forsaken deity's bone.
As Hajun contemplates the acquisition of the fingerbone—this omen of old—his gaze catches a familiar shape. A woman with an ethereal pallor, white wavy hair cascading into a ponytail, her visage framed by the high collar of a Victorian outfit, stark against the industrial grime of New Babel. Her red eyes meet his in a silent challenge.
Recognition dawns. She is not any woman; she is Niorh, once a figure of grace and power within the vampire realm, one of Lushen's esteemed concubines. But the world of the Crimson Spire, the vampire kingdom in the world of Vampires she knew is no more, now usurped and controlled by Visceris, the Apostate, who cast down all linked to Kazelle, the memories plundered from their minds.
Their eyes lock, two remnants of a bygone era, two shadows out of time. But she breaks away first, a seraph on the run, her movements betraying no hint of her once noble stature.
"Niorh!" Hajun calls out, voice barely rising above the market's din. She hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—it speaks of a past she does not recall.
Her response is a swift turn, a whisper of cloth, as she melts into the crowd. Hajun forsakes stealth and follows, the hunt leading him to the iron-riddled heights of New Babel's rooftops. The chase—a dance of predator and ghost, the vampire man trailing the mystery he must untangle.
"Why do you flee, Niorh?!" Wait a second!" Hajun demands, leaping from one soot-stained gable to the next, his form a crimson and obsidian streak under the moon's watchful gaze.
She pivots, the barest hesitation in her step, red eyes flashing with a wildness that speaks of inner turmoil. "Lost," is her solitary reply, the word hanging in the chilled night air.
The chase wanes as realization grips Hajun. Niorh is adrift in a world she no longer understands, her connection to Kazelle severed like a limb, her allegiance to the spire nothing but echoes in her mind. But within her reaction lies a sliver of remembrance, a connection to Hajun, Kazelle's faithful assistant and a brother-in-arms.
Hajun now stands before her, chest heaving, a hand extended not in accusation but in an offer of kinship. "Niorh, the past is veiled, but our purpose need not be. Join me. Together, we can unveil the plots of the Apostate and restore what once was. For Kazelle! They killed him by using a forbidden spell from the elder kings to seal his heart in hell, bounding him to eternal sleep, I won't let his death be in vain!" he intones, betting on a bond that defies memory and its void.
'Oh right..her memories..'
She looks at him, a soul untethered, her stance wavering between flight and the faint, pulsing need to belong, to remember, to fight. There atop the city that represents human ambition and hubris, two children of night stand—poised to confront secrets that should have been entombed with the bones of gods and men.
Hajun continued, "You don't see anything or feel anything from looking at me?"
Niorh responded, "No."
"..Tch.."
'Then it's true then..that bastard really did erase the memories of everyone who was involved with Kazelle, and then cast them down here in the mortal world called earth. As a king, Kazelle was liked by a lot of vampires, but then again, he was hated. How dare they even hate Kazelle, I wanted to kill them just for that, Kazelle saved my life, so I devoted my life to his. Visceris didn't kill us though. In the vampire world, memories are everything. They're not just recollections of past events, they're a part of who we are, our identity. When Viscerus ascended to the throne of the Crimson Spire after Kazelle killed Gorron, he wanted complete loyalty, absolute control. He couldn't risk any lingering loyalties to the former king, any sentiments that might cloud the judgment of his subjects or, worse, incite rebellion. So, he chose to wipe their memories, a fate considered worse than death in our world. To forget is to lose oneself, to lose the essence of who we are. It's a terrifying prospect, isn't it? And as for sending them to the mortal realm, well, that's a double-edged sword. On one hand, it's a banishment, a severing of ties with the vampire world. But on the other, it's also a chance for a clean slate, a new beginning. In Viscerus's mind, it's the ultimate punishment and a stern warning to any who would dare to oppose him. But as for me, why didn't my memories get erased..?'
Hajun asked, "Niorh. Do you remember Kazelle? Anything at all? What about your daughter Sella?"
''Maybe if I bring up their names, then maybe…'
Niorh replied, "Food."
"You want..food?"
Niorh nodded fast.
Hajun thought, 'Shit. I need to find a way to restore her memories, and we can easily locate the rest of the vampires banished down to this world who was involved with Kazelle, and it was A LOT. She has the ability to track all vampires, she can smell them from afar, it's a broken ability, but it's useful.'
Hajun sighed, "Fine. As the bride to my master Kazelle, we'll get food!"
Niorh answered, "Who is that?"
Hajun slapped himself in the face, "Nothing, nevermind. You probably think I'm crazy."
"You are."
"Okay I get it."
'I guess it wouldn't hurt finding food, but then we have to get back on track. There's a cult going around here trying to revive Gorron, they easily blend in with this world, and hide amongst the shadows; and some of them are vampires, vampires who were followers of Gorron, and some are regular people influenced by those cultists vampires who want to be changed. Don't worry, master Kazelle! Even if you are dead, I'll avenge you and get your throne blessed once again!'
(New Babel theater)
The murky din of the theater wrapped itself like a velvet cloak around the patrons. A low murmur of anticipation hummed ahead of the evening's performance. Amidst the audience, shrouded in the dim pretense of a theatre-goer, sat a zealot of the cult, his eyes shaded, his intentions darker than the shadows playing upon the stage. Beside him, Aulus Redgrave, a figure renowned throughout the Order for his fiery prowess, leaned in close, their conversation a stark counterpoint to the gaiety surrounding them. Aulus had long red and yellow hair, glasses, and wore a nice black suit that favored a tuxedo. The zealot cultist, a high ranking member of the cult, had a bald head with scars all over it, with green eyes, a black beard, and he wore a similar suit as well. They spoke with very low volume, with the zealot using magic to make their bodies inaudible to the ears of those around them.
"Have you spoken to the High Priestess?" whispered the zealot cultist, the words slithering through the air like serpents seeking secrets.
Aulus nodded, the crimson glint in his eye betraying his alliance. "Yeah yeah, the plans of the Vermilion Order are but an open tome to me. The higher-ups suspect nothing. Their confidence in their crystals is misplaced heavily."
The scene upon the stage unfolded, a grandiose play depicting the clash of empires and gods. Actors adorned in elaborate costumes marched forth, their lines echoing through the hall, while the audience, entranced, offered scattered applause and hushed praise.
"Magnificent! How the princess weaves her magic," commented a stout matron seated ahead, hanging on the melodrama unfurling before her.
"The set is quite the spectacle," replied her companion, a mustachioed gentleman, eyes agleam with the reflection of artful lights and shadow.
As the onstage drama escalated, so too did the whispered exchange, woven through the lines of the play like a dark undercurrent.
"The cult grows restless," murmured the zealot. "Our shadows reach even here, between the soft applause."
Aulus's voice was low and sure. "And reach further we shall. The time comes. Have we confirmation of the siphoned essence?"
"The energy abounds," confirmed the cultist. "Our hands move where the Order's eyes do not see. You just keep them away and towards the vampires who lurked with Kazelle."
A pause ensued as an actor proclaimed a monologue of gravity, his voice stirring the hearts of many save the two conspirators whose own plot unfolded. Around them, the audience murmured their acclaim.
"Oh, how the Prince vows to face the onslaught!" chortled the matron, her eyes wet with emotion.
"See how the villain lurks, a testament to the playwright's craft," her companion mused, unaware of the true villains in their midst.
"And the relic, Morgane's fingerbone," Aulus inquired quietly, turning his gaze back to the stage as if keenly interested in the mock battle playing out.
"Lost, but we are still searching for it. It was recently picked up by a straggler. I've ordered Morgane the Shroud to locate this straggler with her abilities to get it back."
"Who is that?"
"A master manipulator of shadow, Morgane was once a mere cutpurse who stumbled upon an ancient cloak woven with eldritch threads. She became an assassin of repute, phasing through darkness as if it were her own domain. Her role in the grand scheme is that of an eliminator, silencing those who would oppose the return of Gorron. Her heart is as void as the void she commands. She now is a zealot due to her dedication, the High Priestess sees her as a daughter. She will easily track the one who picked up the fingerbone relic, for it is a important embryo from the very essence of Gorron's body that will aid in his resurrection."
"Oh."
"Just know your time is approaching to where those crystals that are giving you power should aid in Gorron's resurrection."
"Yeah yeah I know, don't have to bug me. I have to extract the essence of the red crystals to resurrect Gorron's corporeal form, merging it with the fingerbone relic, his own finger. You guys supplied the crystals and gave us power to get rid of any invading vampires to prove my worth to you, and we aid in your heretics goals, simple. The higher ups in the Order instantly jumped to the idea that everyone merges with the crystals for more power since the vampire sightings, so that means more will be done for you, thanks for me persuading those idiots with all I had."
"Good. As you should. The High Priestess will be pleased."
In a dramatic crescendo, the stage erupted in a dance of light and shadow, mirroring the night's apex predator—Gorron's looming essence. Fireworks simulated a battle of gods as the lead actor, garbed as a valiant knight, drove his spectral adversaries back with a flourish of his enchanted blade.
"Bravo! The spirit realm recoils before our hero!" the matron called, clapping vigorously.
Aulus lent his own applause, an ironic smile playing about his lips. The play continued, its narrative filled with heroism and salvation—a stark contrast to the dark designs brewing beneath the façade of theatre chitchat.
Well past midnight, the curtains fell on the final act, with the audience awash in the glow of a story well-told. As the crowd began to disperse, still enwrapped in the artful illusion of pageantry and light, the furtive conversation between Aulus and the cultist reached its own denouement.
"We part here, but the darkness will gather soon," the zealot vowed, slipping away like a shadow dissolving into the night.
"Wow, making me leave so fast. Alright."
As Aulus Redgrave rose from his plush seat, the ornate theater door swung open, spilling forth a tide of chattering nobles and wide-eyed commoners into the crisp night air. Two figures detached themselves from the ebb of the crowd, approaching him with purpose in their steps.
"O, there you are, Aulus! Quite the dramatic fare this evening," said Cassius, a lean man whose sharp orange eyes missed little, wavy blonde hair down to his shoulder— master of reconnaissance for the Vermilion Order. His wit was as quick as his blade, and his light-hearted demeanor often masked a calculating mind.
Beside him stood Drusilla, a woman of formidable intellect and stoic presence, long braided black hair, and brown eyes with an eyepatch, able to command the very elements with her augmented abilities, her allegiance to the Vermilion Order as steadfast as iron.
"Indeed indeed," Aulus acknowledged, the tales of the stage already fading behind his more pressing concerns. "What word from the Order?"
Cassius smirked, adjusting the cuff of his neatly tailored coat. "Well, the higher-ups are in a tizzy about the increased vampire sightings. You'd think they stumbled on a den of them beneath the city market."
Drusilla's voice was like a winter's chill, void of any amusement. "It's no laughing matter. They're becoming bolder, and patrols are going missing. There's talk of a nest."
Aulus nodded, his expression grim yet composed. "That is why our reliance on the crimson crystals is paramount. The abilities they grant us are not mere parlour tricks. They lend us the edge we need to put those annoying nocturnal pests back into the ground."
"Ah, but to wield such power, one mustn't lose themselves to it," Cassius chided lightly, though his gaze had sharpened.
"Power is a tool, and we are its master," Aulus stated, a subtle glow flickering in his chest where the crystal was bound to him. "The vampires will find no easy prey amongst the ranks of the Vermilion Order."
Drusilla eyed the crystal's faint luminescence with respect. "Good. We'll need every advantage we can muster. The night grows more treacherous, and these creatures are not the simple mindless beasts of old. They're organizing, adapting. Bodies are turning up everywhere."
The night air around them hung heavy with the weight of unsaid things, and the gentle laughter and fading footsteps of the departing audience seemed incongruent with the gravity of their conversation.
"We must remain vigilant," Aulus concluded, turning his gaze to the stars above, their lights dim compared to the glow of the city. "Let the Order know, I am ready to lead the hunt."
Cassius clapped Aulus on the shoulder, his usual mirth subdued. "Just ensure that it's not us who end up being hunted!"
As the echo of applause died down and the remnants of the audience trickled out, a chilling presence seemed to infiltrate the very air of the theater. The high ceilings that had earlier magnified the orchestra's harmony now seemed to distill a deeper, more sinister sound—a laugh that reverberated with an unsettling familiarity. Kazelle, once thought a relic of a tale best forgotten, appeared atop the balcony, his silhouette a specter of a fraught legacy.
Blood-red curtains billowed as though warning of the storm to come, shadows twisting as Kazelle descended to the main floor of the theater, his gait a mesmerizing blend of grace and threat. The remaining attendees, a mix of nobles and commoners alike, gazed up in a mixture of awe and horror. Their whispers hushed as Kazelle's voice, laced with a venomous glee, cut through the silence.
"Dear patrons of the grand art," his voice boomed, mischief underlying each measured syllable, "how quaint these tales of heroism. Yet here I stand, a reminder: the greatest of stories are inked in blood, not in the tepid ink of playwrights."
The zealot, eyes wide, recognized the dark former lord from lore and rumor. A being whose history was as marred as the tales they whispered in the cult's shadowed corners. Panic clawed at his vitals as Lushen's eyes—a pair of smoldering coals—found his in the crowd.
Kazelle's laughter pierced the murmurs, a mocking salute to the fear he elicited. "Do I sense a kin of the cult in our midst? How... delightful. You scurry like rats, worshiping a dead god."
The onlookers, trapped between the unfolding scene and the exits, were statues gripped in dread. The play they'd witnessed now seemed a child's farce in comparison to the drama Lushen was scripting in real-time.
"Kazelle! H-How?! You were in an eternal sleep! Your heart in hell-!"
"Be quiet." Kazelle command echoed off the theater walls, a physical force that seemed to shake the very foundations. His gaze drilled into the zealot, as though peeling back layers of resolve. "I hate hearing that over and over. Anyway, that little cult
"Gorron's revival? A folly I will delight in crushing. For it is I who shall reclaim my power, my kingdom of the Crimson Spire. The resurrection shall be mine, and Gorron's essence will fuel my ascension. After I'm done with all of you cultists and zealots and all that, I'm heading for Viscerus next, and the Crimson Spire. I might even build my kingdom here in this world..I don't know yet. Haven't decided. But another thing, i'm starting to think Viscerus was friends with that foolish Gorron, banishing me without reason after I killed Gorron. The Elders sided with Viscerus to get rid of me, I don't know why..but I wanna find out that too!L
The audience, unknown players in this dark act, felt an enveloping fear, whispering prayers and making surreptitious signs against evil. Kazelle reveled in the atmosphere of terror, his mannerisms a dance of malevolent joy and chaos.
The zealot's fear broke into panic, his faith in the cult's grand design wavering under the force of Kazelle's might. "No, the rite shall not be disturbed!" He yelled, his voice a dissonant chord against Lushen's maddening gaiety.
Turning to the petrified crowd with arms wide, Kazelle proclaimed with a malicious grin, "Bear witness to the folly of blind servitude. The play continues, my dear audience, and I assure you—it will be a performance to die for."
The zealot stood up, exclaiming, "You won't stop the Ascension!"
The zealot's fear twisted into desperate resolve, as the dark fervor of Gorron's embrace steeled his will. With shaking hands, he summoned the forbidden incantations, words that tore at the fabric of life and will, binding the hapless attendees to his dire command. Like marionettes strung upon the unseen threads of malevolency, the once tranquil audience's eyes glazed over, a macabre luster overtaking their gazes as they turned as one toward Kazelle, their bodies twitching unnaturally, rising to serve as instruments of the cult's vengeance.
"Rise, my puppets," the zealot bellowed, his voice a distorted reflection of his inner chaos. "Attack, rend, tear apart the interloper who dares defy the will of Gorron!"
The zombified theatergoers lurched forward, a macabre tableau vivant, their cries silent but movements jerky and aggressive, each step a
grotesque mimicry of life as they converged upon Kazelle. The former lord stood alone, a bemused smile playing across his lips at the tide of flesh shambling toward him. With preternatural calm, he murmured a single word that was anathema to life—the utterance of power and dominion.
"Gluttony."
The word fell like a guillotine, and the very air tensed, a rippling current that answered his call. The blood within the ensorcelled attacked surged forth as if compelled by the strongest of rituals, drawn to Kazelle's command. Ruby tendrils slithered from their hosts, coalescing into a swirling vortex of crimson that formed a grotesque, spiraling drill above the assailants, suspended in a morbid dance.
With a flick of Kazelle wrist, the blood-drill descended, a specter of death upon the wretched zealot. His scream harmonized with the wet, gruesome sound of the blood carving through him. His body, wracked with the agony of betrayal, contorted as the crimson lance pinned him to the theater's wall—a macabre marionette in its own ghastly exhibit.
"May your spirit be devoured by the void you so eagerly worship," Kazelle hissed, his voice the embodiment of merciless retribution. The sound of the zealot's final, bubbling plea for mercy was swallowed by the ensuing silence—a hush that blanketed the aftermath of the carnage.
The zombified attendees, released from the spell, slumped to the ground, their forms void of strength and life, empty vessels robbed of their sanguine essence. What remained in the aftermath was a theater turned mausoleum, a testament to Kazelle's power and his brutal campaign against the cult's ascendant god.
And as the echo of his chilling deeds resonated through the grand hall, the dread that Kazelle inspired grew ever deeper—a dark promise that the rivers of the Crimson Spire would run thick with the blood of any who opposed him.