Prospero’s blood trembled.

  He wandered, fainted, and was woken by the pain minutes later. There was no word to describe it - ‘agonising’ was too tender and rational for his needs. His point of view was reduced to the spirit concealed within his body, trapped within a rapturous prison of flesh. He refused to recognise the pain as part of himself.

  Make it stop! Damn it - just make the pain stop! I’ll do anything!

  He pleaded with no God in particular between sessions of writhing in the dirt, but there came no answer, and neither did he expect one to arrive, much as he was in need of a miracle.

  In his delirium, minutes passed in the blink of an eye. Soon, he was further into the downs and the treelines than his father had ever permitted him to wander as a child; the blight-tangle of the countryside, where beasts and monsters roamed in the many shadows. He suffered so exquisitely that death seemed like an escape. He imagined ramming his head into the side of an oak until he splintered his skull and breathed no longer, or drowning himself in the shallow burns. Anything to be free of the pain.

  Those destructive thoughts were answered, he noticed, by the merging, half-dark silhouette of a hunter come to examine the orchestra of screams and wails. The wolf was curious when it stepped out from the shadows, looking upon Prospero as if unsure of his status as a meal. But once a breath of life escaped from his hoarse throat, the creature was alive and its eyes glinted with delight, teeth bared in anticipation of a kill.

  Prospero’s eyes were open, but he didn’t recognise the creature as a wolf. No - he didn’t recognise much of anything past that point. His vision was conquered by the succulent web unfolding before him; a labyrinth of tubes and wires through which quickening blood ran like fountainhead waters. He was so incredibly famished.

  The wolf leapt. It was no man, and demanded neither Prospero’s purse nor garments - only his life. The mass of beating blood filled his vision, the rows of yawning teeth imperceptible beneath its crimson lifeblood. A second later, his throat would be torn, and his flesh supped upon by a mere beast of the woods. Prospero snapped shut his eyes and awaited death.

  When he came to, the night was warmer than ever. His core was boiling, as if he’d stepped out of a near-scalding bath only seconds ago. Something was strewn beneath him in tattered strips. It might have been alive at one point or another, but no longer. Now it was dead, sprawled, executed, torn through; left to bleach in the moonlight.

  Prospero’s arms moved of their own accord. His fingers squeezed handfuls of pulp, drawing out the ambrosial crimson which trickled down his welcoming throat like nectar. He glutted himself until his nose could sense nothing but iron and his chin was dribbling with blood. Snapshots of clarity struck him fiercely, and from one daze to the next, he fell into a fit of wretched vomiting.

  Bonespittle flew out in chunks from his gullet. Blood and ichor mixed with the dark grasses. His mouth was filled with the dark freedom of iron - a feverish and forbidden taste which touched his gums like bolts of electricity. Salt creeped into his upper lip; tears were now streaming freely from his eyes. Beneath the primeval satisfaction, a surge of disgust passed through him.

  “What’s happening to me…?” his palms pressed against the soil - the carpet of ragged flesh splayed below him, “Father… Luthor… where are you? I need your help…”

  As if to answer his pleas, something appeared before him. A glossy slab of glass hovering in the air, filtering purest moonlight through its length. Upon its surface were words inscribed by an invisible hand, sterile in their delivery.

  Class Change:

  [N/A] → [Vampire]

  Type Change:

  [Half-Fiend] → [Fiend]

  Abilities Acquired:

  [Vampiric Bloodline - Beastblood]

  [Vampiric Weaknesses]

  [Vampiric Strengths]

  [Beasthood]

  [Lowland Wolf] Defeated

  [Canine Proficiency] + 1

  [Canine] Form Unlocked! (Aptitude - Athleticism)

  Prospero recognised the process from his studies. Though he had never received a Baptism per his father’s wishes, he had been given a [Class] nonetheless. On late nights, he predicted his own aptitudes and took a few guesses as to how he might have turned out; a [Carpenter], a [Baker], a [Smith]... but never a [Vampire].

  He wiped his mouth clean of blood and stood, suddenly invigorated beyond explanation, into the pleasant draught whistling across the air. The boiling in his veins had ceased, though the memory of his beastly consumption was almost enough to make him vomit a second time. The wolf, he recalled - that was the identity of the flayed corpse beneath his feet. He had feasted on the raw flesh of an animal.

  “Ahh… This can’t be! I don’t believe it!” His hands became smeared with blood when he attempted to wipe them off on his trousers, “What does all of this mean!? How could I be a Vampire, of all things!? I’m no monster!”

  He closed his eyes, and the world stopped spinning.

  Just… how could this… his thoughts ran like fevered dreams. That vial… father had me drink from it. What was that? Vampire blood!? No - it couldn’t have been! He wouldn’t…

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  His father was dead.

  The truth only struck him just then, as the adrenaline roaring in his blood began to fizzle. He was dead, and Innsworm had been made the sacrifice of some madman hellbent on destroying Prospero’s family. The questions buzzing in his scalp came to a screaming halt as sorrow welled within him. He sobbed now not for himself, but for the parent whom he had never repaid for his unconditional love.

  “Father…” Overcome, he resisted the urge to drop to his knees, “No… There were so many things I never told you…!”

  The moon was now high, and revealed his story state through shafts of crystalline light. His fingers were caked with mud and viscera, his garments torn beyond mending. Only his mind remained unsullied by the night’s chaos, combing feverishly through distant memories to arrive at the next logical step of his escape.

  “...Queensbridge,” he muttered.

  The dark assailants of Innsworm had no business in a sleepy fishing hamlet. His father had allies there. Allies he had only met as a boy and never again, but whom Gaspar had bade him seek in case of a sudden calamity. Should anything happen to me, or to Luthor, he recalled, then go to Queensbridge, and find the old couple who own the watermill. They will set you on the right path.

  What was ‘right’ in this chaotic world, he wondered? The blood smearing his mouth was like fire as he lapped it up, sweeter than any wine. This ‘hunger’ of his was unnatural, an instinct bridging the gap between man and beast. Prospero knew very little of Vampires and their ilk besides what he had learned from the old stories tucked away in the manor’s library.

  He needed answers. To what questions, he had yet to consider, though one thing was for certain: the trajectory of his life had been forever altered. Casting fevered glances between the oaks, he stole deeper into the woods and tried to recall the way towards Queensbridge.

  Soon enough, he was well and truly lost. As the canopy thickened, the plumes of smoke rising from Innsworm vanished, and the forest seemed to swallow him up in its labyrinthine trap.

  Now was about the time Prospero would have found himself short of breath, but an uneventful hour of hopping over roots and dashing between bushes hadn’t exhausted him in the slightest. He could hazard a guess as to why.

  “...I should have a look at my Class,” he decided, having worked out the last of his tears for the time being. “If I’m remembering the basics correctly, there should be a status screen I can access.”

  A single thought in passing was all it took to summon the glossy plaque, which hovered gently within his field of view and followed the movements of his eyes.

  Prospero Baptista

  Grade 1 Vampire

  Physical Resistance - 5% Magical Resistance - 0%

  “Vampire…” he grimaced. “Have I really become a monster?”

  An arrow near the bottom of the menu slid off the plaque when his eyes rested upon it, revealing a second ‘page’ of information.

  BODY

  Athleticism - 4 Endurance - 4 Fortitude - 4

  FINESSE

  Acrobatics - 4 Stealth - 4 Perception - 4

  MIND

  Willpower - 2 Arcane - 2 Memory - 2

  VAMPIRE

  Beasthood - 2%

  Regeneration - 2 Unarmed - 2 Summoning - 2

  “The three Attributes, a Class Feature, and a Class Set….” he reminded himself of his studies to distract from the swelling panic in his chest. “Attributes always begin at 2, but some of mine have already increased. Does that have something to do with being a… a Vampire?”

  The term slithered out of his mouth reluctantly. He was half-disgusted with the idea of accepting his fate, but if there was one thing that would never lie to him, it was the governing mystery of the System. Vampire or not, his chest swelled with a certain curiosity now that he had a Class of his own, however horrifying it was to comprehend.

  The box of text morphed to answer his query.

  Passive - Heightened Physique (Vampiric Strength)

  Description - You gain a 100% bonus to all stat increases within the [Body] and [Finesse] categories.

  Most combat-oriented Classes received at least one bonus to a certain Attribute. Prospero recalled an example in the Swordmaster, who received a 50% bonus to [Body] attributes. It was rare to see a bonus any higher than that, much less spread across two Attributes instead of one. His first thought was that such a boon had to be saddled with some sort of weakness.

  Again, the System responded to his thoughts.

  Passive - Vampiric Weaknesses

  Description - As a full-blooded Vampire, you are subject to the following effects:

  Weakness to Sunlight - When your body is exposed to direct sunlight, you will suffer constant and progressively worsening levels of damage. If a region of your body is exposed to direct sunlight for more than 10 seconds, it is turned to ash. You are capable of withstanding sunlight provided there is enough cloud cover, though you will experience significant discomfort in these cases.

  Weakness to Sacred Objects - Artefacts, icons, or other objects which have been magically consecrated and are actively worshipped appear to you as beacons of unnatural light. Prolonged eye contact with such objects will result in temporary blindness.

  Weakness to Running Water - Natural sources of running water, such as rivers and streams, burn you as a strong acid would. This weakness only applies if the affected area is submerged within the source in question, and has no effect if you are sprayed with water droplets, including rainfall. This weakness has no effect if the water is contained within an artificial structure, such as a bathtub or glass, with the sole exception of water which has been blessed.

  Weakness to Silver - Sources of silver, whether natural or artificial, inflict you with nausea and sickness, halting your regenerative abilities. This weakness takes some time to wear off depending on the length and severity of your exposure, and can last from minutes to days.

  Vulnerable Heart - If your heart is pierced with a wooden stake, you are killed instantly. The stake must be impaled by hand, be longer than 5 inches, and have a diameter wider than 2 inches.

  Uninvited - You are incapable of entering an occupied dwelling without explicit spoken or written permission from at least one active resident. Any attempt to enter a dwelling without permission is met with forceful repulsion. It is not possible for a resident to revoke their permission once it has been granted.

  His heart sank with each listing. Would he no longer feel the light’s embrace upon his flesh? Was the rising sun now a curse upon his very existence? Vampires were forsaken beasts of the night who supped on the flesh of innocent people, and whose devious ambitions once rattled the chains of dominion across the breadth of the Incandescence.

  Now Prospero was one of them. A nightkin. A hexblood. And all by his father’s own hand. But the sorrow of Gaspar’s final words revealed the necessity of his actions - there was a rhyme and reason to his supposed madness. Prospero could not imagine a world in which his father would have thrust upon him the burden of vampirism for anything bar the direst of circumstances. There were answers to be found. Answers he had been tasked to find.

  “...I must reach Queensbridge.” Prospero resolved, “Dawn will crack shortly.”