*** WARNING [18+] ***
Once plagued by an unquenchable thirst for human blood, Grace, a vampire, used to paint a grim trail of lifeless bodies in her wake. But, the winds of change swept in when she crossed paths with Alastor Ravenwood, a formidable...
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Grace Ravenwood stood proudly at the apex of the hill, her eyes a striking shade of crimson that seemed to pierce through the village below.
Her long, hazelnut brown hair, swayed and twirled in a graceful dance with the wind.
Dressed in a form-fitting black satin gown, she emanated a commanding presence that seamlessly blended elegance with authority. The sleeves of her dress extended all the way to her fingertips, adding a touch of mystery to her ensemble, while the flowing skirt elegantly cascaded down her toned legs, hinting at strength beneath its beauty.
Her dress flirted with the line of propriety, teasing a glimpse of cleavage that hinted at her curves without daring to reveal too much.
The moon, a luminous orb suspended in the ink-black canvas of the night sky, bathed the world below in its silvery radiance. Wisps of clouds, like diaphanous veils, meandered lazily across the heavens, their shadowy fingers caressing the earth in a gentle dance of light and darkness.
Thirty more minutes, she calculated silently, anticipation humming in her veins.
She observed with her heightened senses as a group of robust guards staggered down the cobblestone streets, their movements unsteady from a night of revelry at the nearby tavern.
Amidst the shadows, she noticed a few feral cats darting around; otherwise, the night lay eerily silent.
The residents cowered within their homes after dark, ensuring every door and window was securely bolted. Some had gone to extra lengths by hanging strings of pungent garlic and onions outside for protection.
Grace found the aroma of garlic appetizing, while the onions emitted a repulsive stench that humans believed warded off vampires.
Vampires knew better than to be deterred by such simple charms though. When hunger gnawed at their insides, nothing could prevent a vampire from seeking out its prey.
Except for silver.
Just like how a werewolf recoils from a silver blade, vampires shunned the touch of silver as if it were searing flames. A mere graze on their skin could send them reeling in agony, while a well-aimed strike to the heart or skull would be their undoing.
Grace mentally counted down the minutes, her gaze sweeping over the deserted streets as she remained on high alert.
Her destination was the grand Creston Estate, a sprawling structure that commanded attention at the edge of Creston. It was here that Emmerson Miltone sought refuge, blending into obscurity after departing from the bustling city of Kythaela.
Months of relentless pursuit for any trace of his whereabouts bore fruit when a weathered trader, his cloak adorned with flecks from far-off places, divulged an enthralling story.
In the vibrant market square of Creston, where the scent of warm bread wafted through the air and the lively banter of locals filled every corner, he recounted the arrival of a mysterious figure who had slipped into town under the veil of darkness. Overnight, this enigmatic stranger was declared the new mayor, much to the bewilderment of the trader who knew well that Creston already boasted a competent leader.
