The Last Feast of the Vampire Lords

[WeAreAllMortal]

The Keep of the Vampire Lords​

High in the windswept mountains, where the icy gales never ceased their mournful wails, stood the ancient Keep of the Vampire Lords. The structure loomed like a grotesque monument to ages long past, its jagged spires clawing at the sky like the talons of some ancient beast. The stone walls, slick with perpetual frost and the grime of untold centuries, bore the scars of countless sieges—each crack and fissure a testament to the violence that had shaped this cursed place. Few dared approach its shadow, and fewer still returned to tell of what lay within.

Within the Keep’s frigid halls, a council gathered. Around a table carved from blackened oak, the Vampire Lords sat draped in heavy cloaks of crimson and sable. Their faces, pale and angular, bore an eerie, timeless quality. Eyes like dying embers glimmered in the gloom, their gaze resting hungrily upon the maps and ledgers spread before them.

“The latest shipment has arrived,” one of them purred, his voice a serpentine whisper that slithered through the chill air. His pale fingers, tipped with talons like shards of obsidian, traced the edge of the scroll as if savoring the texture of the parchment. The faint scent of blood clung to him, a reminder of his recent indulgence. “Straight from the Havens… plump, wide-eyed, and utterly ripe.”

A ripple of satisfaction coursed through the gathering, manifesting as thin, cruel smiles and the soft rasp of talons drumming on the table’s surface. “And they suspect nothing?” another inquired, her tone laced with mockery. Her fanged grin caught the light of a flickering brazier, revealing teeth sharper than any blade.

“They never do,” purred the first, his voice a silken whisper layered with malice. “They come willingly, dreaming of riches, glory, and freedom. Such poor, deluded creatures.”

A ripple of laughter swept through the room—a sound devoid of joy, a dry, rasping chorus like the creak of coffin lids.

“This is what they are promised,” another began, his voice rising mockingly as he gestured dramatically, “Adventure! Riches! Camaraderie! And…” He paused, his grin spreading wider, revealing teeth that glinted like daggers in the firelight, “…justice.”

At the word “justice,” the room erupted into an orgy of grotesque mirth. It was a cacophony of cackles and guttural howls, an unholy harmony that mingled with the faint, almost imperceptible wails drifting up from the depths below.

When the laughter subsided, one of the Lords leaned back in his chair, a sinister smirk lingering on his lips. With a sudden, guttural heave, he spat a glob of vile, blood-flecked phlegm onto the stone floor, where it hissed faintly.

“Cattle,” he sneered, the word dripping with disdain. “Every last one of them.” His final guffaw rattled like a death rattle, echoing in the hollow silence that followed.

“And yet,” murmured a figure seated at the head of the table, his voice softer but no less commanding, “it is their ignorance that sustains us. The herd replenishes itself as long as we leave a few to graze. Let them stumble through the pastures of their delusions. They fatten themselves for the harvest.”

“Bah!” A grating voice broke through the mirth, sharp as the snap of brittle bones. A wiry vampire, his eyes alight with a feral gleam, slammed his goblet onto the table, splashing crimson ichor across the tarnished silverware. “Why should we restrain ourselves? Why should we leave even one to graze? Let us gorge, I say! Feast and revel until the rivers run red! More will come, as they always do. They cannot resist the lure.”

A murmur swept through the room, some nodding in savage agreement, others narrowing their eyes in wary silence.

“And what then, Karnak?” said the figure at the head of the table, his voice still calm but carrying an edge of icy disdain. “When the rivers run dry, when the pastures are barren, will you sit content in your empty halls, gnawing on scraps of memory? The herd replenishes itself because we permit it. That is the balance. That is the law.”

“Law?” Karnak sneered, baring his fangs in a wicked grin. “Your law is a leash, held by fools who fear their own hunger. I say let the cattle fall where they may. If the pastures empty, then so be it—we are hunters, are we not? Let us find new prey!”

“You speak of hunting, Karnak,” the elder said, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the chamber, “yet what you describe is little more than butchery. A true hunter knows patience. Restraint.” He leaned forward, his eyes glowing like embers in the gloom. “It is not just the blood we crave, but the game. The challenge. Without it, what are we but mindless beasts, gnawing at the bones of a dying world?” ”

Karnak growled low in his throat, his fingers curling against the table as if he might lunge across it. “Call it what you will, elder. Balance, law, patience—it’s all just pretty words to mask your cowardice. You cling to your rules while the world grows fat and ripe for the taking.”

“And you,” the elder replied, his tone as cold as the grave, “would gorge yourself into starvation, blind to the consequences of your gluttony. The strong do not squander their strength, Karnak. They wield it wisely.”

A tense silence fell over the room, the air crackling with unspoken tension. Around the table, the other Lords shifted uneasily, their loyalties divided, their predatory eyes flicking between the elder and Karnak.

Finally, another voice broke the silence—a softer, more calculating tone. “The forests grow quiet,” the speaker observed, leaning forward with the air of one unveiling a secret. “Even the cities, once bustling with cattle, are beginning to empty. Word spreads, my Lords. They say that in Nave, they shall find no mercy, no succor. Only death. And that all they seek to gain shall be taken from them.”

There was a murmur of assent from several of the gathered Lords. A gaunt figure with a grim smile spoke next, his words laced with sardonic amusement. “They speak true, of course. It is as it should be. Let them fear us. Let them know that their guards—those few who still remain—have long since been bought off to look the other way. Even we,” he gestured to the room, his pale fingers streaked with dried blood, “the bloodstained, walk freely in their streets. None dare raise a hand against us, for to do so is to invite swift ruin upon themselves. Their so-called justice crumbled long ago, and with it, their hope.”

A ripple of dark laughter spread around the table, but the elder raised a hand, silencing them with a gesture. “And yet,” he said, his voice a blade cutting through the mirth, “what do we gain when even their fear drives them away? When the pastures are empty, the cattle no longer fatten themselves. They flee to greener lands, and we are left with nothing but our pride and our hunger.”

Karnak snarled, slamming his fist against the table. “Let them flee! There will always be more—others too foolish to heed the warnings. The world is vast, and the cattle are weak. If some leave, others will come to take their place. Why waste time worrying over scraps?”

“Scraps, Karnak?” The elder’s gaze bore into him, unyielding. “What you call scraps are the lifeblood of our existence. The cattle are not infinite. And should the world come to know that Nave offers only death, do you think they will continue to venture here? Even the most foolish beast avoids the hunter’s trap if it sees the bones of its kin scattered before it.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room as the elder’s words settled like a shadow over the gathering. One of the younger Lords, his voice hesitant but resolute, murmured, “The elder speaks wisely. The herds are thinning. If we do not temper our appetites, there may come a day when we look down from these mountains and see nothing but desolation.”

“And what would you propose?” Karnak spat, his tone mocking. “That we plant fields and raise cattle like farmers? Shall we play shepherds to our prey?”

The elder’s expression hardened, his voice quiet but unrelenting. “Call it what you will, Karnak. But the truth remains: without balance, there can be no feast. Without restraint, there can be no dominion.”

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the howling wind battering against the Keep’s ancient stone walls. But the silence did not last. One of the younger Lords, his face alight with a sudden feral gleam, sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring like a beast catching the scent of prey. “Do you smell that?” he whispered, his voice trembling with anticipation.

One by one, the others turned their heads toward the great iron door at the end of the chamber. Even Karnak, momentarily silenced, tilted his head, a wicked grin creeping across his face. “Fresh blood,” he growled. “And close.”

The elder Lord closed his eyes, his expression darkening with foreboding as he listened to the mounting excitement of his kin. “Another fool, come to throw themselves at our mercy,” he muttered under his breath. But mercy was not a word that belonged in the lexicon of the Lords.

 

[WeAreAllMortal]

The Last Feast

Far below the Keep, in the frozen wilderness, a lone figure stumbled forward, clutching the reins of a weary steed. The adventurer’s breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale a plume of frost in the biting air. His cloak, torn and frayed, offered little protection against the relentless cold, and his armor, dented and scarred from battles fought against the wilderness itself, hung heavy on his battered frame. Yet his eyes, though shadowed by exhaustion, burned with a desperate hope. To him, the Keep was salvation—a beacon of shelter against the unforgiving cold, a sanctuary where he might find respite, warmth, and perhaps a kindred soul to share a fire. He did not know that every step he took brought him closer to the jaws of doom.

The adventurer’s cloak was torn, his armor dented from battles fought against the wilderness itself. The winds howled around him, slicing through his defenses like knives, but he pressed onward, his eyes fixed on the shadowy silhouette of the Keep looming above.

To him, it was salvation. A beacon of shelter against the unforgiving cold. A sanctuary where he might find respite, warmth, and perhaps a kindred soul to share a fire. He did not know that every step he took brought him closer to the jaws of doom.

From their perch in the tower, the Lords gazed down upon him, their eyes blazing with crimson hunger. They could see the blood coursing through his veins, the flicker of life that made him irresistibly appetizing. All discussion of balance, restraint, and sustainability vanished in an instant, devoured by their all-consuming lust.

Karnak was the first to move, his lips curling into a savage grin. “He’s mine,” he growled, rising from his seat.

“Yours?” another Lord snapped, leaping to his feet. “The blood is fresh. It will sustain us all.”

A ripple of discord spread through the room as the Lords began to argue, their hunger driving them to the brink of frenzy. But the elder Lord remained seated, his gaze heavy with despair. “Fools,” he murmured. “Do you not see? This is no feast. This is famine. He is the last.”

But his words fell on deaf ears. The Lords surged from the chamber, driven by their primal hunger, leaving the elder alone in the cold and empty hall. He sighed, rising slowly to his feet, and moved to the window. Below, the lone adventurer had reached the foot of the mountain and was urging his steed onward, its labored breaths visible in the icy air.

The elder watched as the Lords descended upon their prey, their figures darting through the darkness like wraiths. The adventurer never stood a chance. They surrounded him, their laughter echoing through the wilderness as they toyed with their victim, savoring his terror before the inevitable end.

The feasting was swift and savage. The Lords fell upon the lone adventurer like a pack of wolves, tearing him from his steed before he could even cry out. They ripped into his flesh, their claws and fangs turning the snow crimson beneath their feet. His blood sizzled as it met the frozen ground, the warmth of his fleeting life extinguished in moments.

But the feast, as fleeting as it was, left them unsatisfied. The adventurer’s mortal frame had been too frail, too meager to sate the monstrous appetites of the assembled Lords. Instead of relief, the taste of fresh blood only ignited their deeper hunger, a gnawing void that could never truly be filled.

As the last scraps of the adventurer were devoured, the Lords stood in uneasy silence. Their eyes, burning with unquenched thirst, turned toward one another. The tension in the air was palpable—a fragile thread stretched to its limit.

“You’ve taken more than your share, Karnak,” hissed one of the younger Lords, his crimson-stained lips curled in accusation.

“More than my share?” Karnak snarled, his claws twitching. “You ripped the heart from his chest before I could even taste it!”

“I did what was necessary,” the other retorted, stepping closer, his fangs bared. “You would have gorged yourself and left us with nothing!”

The argument ignited into chaos on the blood-drenched snow, under the pale gaze of the moon. The Lords descended upon one another in a frenzy of claws and fangs, their primal hunger unleashed beneath the darkened sky. Snow, once pristine, turned crimson as ancient predators became prey, their roars of fury and pain echoing across the barren wilderness.

Karnak stood at the center of the melee, his crimson-streaked visage a mask of savage triumph. “You would lecture me on restraint?” he snarled, his claws raking across the chest of another Lord, sending him sprawling into the frost. “You, who would let us starve while the cattle stumble freely through the fields?”

The Lord’s response was silenced as Karnak tore into him, his fangs sinking deep. Around him, the others fought with equal brutality, the lines between hunter and hunted blurred in the frenzy. The wind carried their howls into the distance, chilling any who might have heard and lived to tell the tale.

The elder sat unmoving on his great, crumbling throne, the dim light of the brazier casting long shadows across the stone walls of the keep. He did not need to rise or even glance toward the great doors to know what transpired beyond them. The cries of his kin—once mighty Lords—reached his ears like a mournful symphony. He could smell the blood, hear the frantic snarls and the tearing of flesh. He knew the script by heart; he had seen it play out countless times.

“They think themselves immortal,” he muttered to the empty hall, his voice carrying a quiet resignation. “And yet they succumb to the same folly. Hunger will always find its prey, even when the prey is oneself.”

The wind howled beyond the keep, rattling its ancient ironwork. The elder closed his eyes, listening as the sounds of the battle dwindled, one by one, until only silence remained. He opened them again when he heard the heavy, deliberate footsteps approaching the great hall.

The massive wooden doors groaned as they were pushed open, revealing Karnak silhouetted against the faint light of dawn. His figure was gaunt but unbowed, his armor shattered, his claws stained with blood both fresh and rotted. His eyes burned with a frenzied light, the madness of survival etched into his every feature.

“I am the last,” Karnak snarled, his voice echoing through the empty hall. “And now I will take what is mine.”

The elder did not move, his ancient form still as a statue. “What is yours?” he asked softly, his tone devoid of challenge or fear.

Karnak’s lips curled into a savage grin. “Everything,” he spat. “The keep, the town, the blood of the cattle—everything you allowed to waste away while you did nothing!”

The elder’s eyes, pale as frost, locked with Karnak’s. “And what will you do when there is nothing left?” he asked. “When the cattle have fled, and the blood of your kin turns to poison in your veins? What will you take then, Karnak?”

Karnak’s laugh was guttural, unhinged. “I’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, I’ll take you!”

With a feral roar, Karnak lunged, his claws glinting in the dim light. He moved with the swiftness of a predator, his hunger driving him forward. But the elder did not flinch. In an instant, faster than the eye could follow, he rose from his throne and struck.

The hall was silent again. Karnak stood frozen, his triumphant snarl fading into confusion. The elder’s clawed hand, moving faster than thought, had pierced his chest, clutching the remnants of a shriveled, blackened heart. Karnak’s eyes widened in shock, his body convulsing as the life drained from him. The elder’s gaze never wavered, his expression one of cold, pitiless resolve. “You were always a fool, Karnak,” he murmured, his voice as soft as a tomb’s whisper. “And now, you are nothing.” Karnak’s body began to convulse, then crumble, his ash falling in a lifeless heap at the elder’s feet.

The elder stepped back, brushing the remains from his hand with a quiet disdain. He glanced around the empty hall, its once-grand pillars now cracked and worn. “And so it ends,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.

He returned to his throne, lowering himself into its cold embrace. The fires in the brazier flickered, casting shadows that danced like specters on the walls. He stared ahead, his gaze distant, his thoughts fixed on the centuries that had passed and the desolation yet to come.

The sun’s pale rays began to creep through the high windows, illuminating the ruin of the keep. The elder leaned back, his eyes closing as he awaited the inevitable. Outside, the wind howled through the empty halls, carrying with it the faint echoes of laughter and screams—a ghostly reminder of the carnage that had unfolded. The Keep of the Vampire Lords stood silent once more, a monument to the folly of those who had ruled within its walls. And as the last embers of the brazier flickered and died, the elder’s final breath mingled with the cold, unyielding air, a whisper lost to the ages.