That script I promised...

It is done.

The wars that claimed so many souls are over, and mankind once again holds sway over the forces of darkness.  The few who escaped the purges are either dead, or scattered to the four corners of the world.  Decimated, leaderless, and persecuted at every turn, the undead host will not endure.

Yet there is one stronghold still standing – Oslanimov Castle, hidden in the far-flung and desolate recesses of the Winter Peaks.  Those fortunate enough to find it may beg shelter within its stout walls, for this is the last haven of vampirekind.

All feel the loss of their kindred at this time … some more than others.

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Suffused in amber torchlight, the vampire’s death-white skin appeared to be aglow with health and life: but such was not the case.  Isca was dead – undead, to be precise – and had been for nearly seventy years.  Though still young by the standards of his race, his immortality weighed heavily on him today; an unwelcome burden that taxed both mind and heart.  After all, what good was immortality when everyone he loved was gone?

With footsteps as silent as falling snow, he stalked across the crypt, his golden eyes fixed on a casket of cold, grey marble that rested serene beneath the full moon’s glow.  In the weeks since he came to Castle Oslanimov, he had visited this place often, his body and soul drawn here whenever time permitted – and sometimes when it didn’t.  The loss was still a raw wound, deep and festering, its healing hindered by the vampire’s reluctance to let go of his pain.  It alone retained his link with the world, and reminded him that he still lived - for with one single blow, his world had been turned upside-down.

Strong, deft digits, honed to sharp points, drifted over the marble engravings, taking comfort in the familiarity of their contours.  He himself had chosen the figures carved in relief on its smooth surface, though the cunning and able warriors who cavorted above could never do justice to the one who lay beneath.  Words of devotion and lasting affection poured from his dark-hued lips in a low-pitched stream.  The bond was as strong after death as it had been in life, and Isca did not envisage that changing in the near future.

A low scrape, inaudible by human standards, disturbed his communion.  Long, tapered ears twitched instinctively, and soon other senses followed suit.  Isca was not alone.  His enhanced perceptions informed him of the identity of the intruder without recourse to the untrustworthy element of vision.  Although the castle housed many refugees of the same species, not all were of the same race, and even in this singular circumstance, old prejudices still held.  This one was not a threat to his safety, however.  This one was worse.

“Get out,” he snapped.  

Clothing rustled, and a low laugh slunk about the chamber, the echoes distorting its point of origin.  “That’s a fine welcome,” remarked a feminine voice, threaded as always with ribbons of scorn.

Meriloth.  Self-styled keeper of Castle Oslanimov, and hence nominal matriarch of the disoriented and bereaved vampire people.  Since the day of his arrival, she had been a thorn in his side; always wanting something of him, and rarely – if ever – vocalising her wishes.  His now-dead companion had taken an instant and vehement dislike to her, and Isca had found himself completely in accord.  She disturbed his solace often, but never before had she hounded him to this extent.  Could a man not even grieve in peace?

“But I think I shall stay – after all, this is my home.”

Isca clenched his jaw.  He had communicated little with his fellow refugees since his arrival, but his eyes and ears had been open, and it seemed to him that it was long past time that a few home truths were said.  A single movement brought him from his possessive crouch over the coffin to a fully upright position, facing Meriloth.  He did not miss the feral gleam in the would-be queen’s eye as it followed his movements.  With effort, he repressed a snarl.

“None of this is yours, you thieving trollop.”

Whatever her retribution for the insult might be, Isca deemed it worth the price just to see the look on her face.  Meriloth’s smug hauteur melted along with her smile.  

“I’ve seen much since I arrived – the coat of arms in the main hall, for instance.  This castle belongs to human nobility.”  He savoured her look of outrage before adding, “So that rules you out on both counts.”

For a brief moment, it seemed his goading would lead to an explosion of temper on her part; just as abruptly, Meriloth’s expression morphed to something more calculating, and infinitely superior.  With a sway in her hips, she approached the coffin, running appreciative hands over its smooth surface, much as Isca had done moments ago.

“Those who live in my home live by my rules. When you two came here, I took you in without question, gave you shelter and nourishment.  I had my clerics working night and day to try to save her life – albeit in vain.  All I ask is that you repay the debt.”

Isca swallowed against the lump in his throat at the mention of his companion.  He buried his emotion beneath a grim and unwelcoming front.  “How?”

“Pledge your sword to me…fight for me.  Our location cannot remain secret forever.  Sooner or later they will come, and when they do, everyone will need to play their part.”
  
Isca declined to comment.  In his mind’s eye he conjured visions of battlefields both long ago and far away; fierce visions of glory, and blood, and joy.

“You are a fighting man, aren’t you?” she asked teasingly, her carnivorous gaze roving unwanted over his masculine lines.  When this tack, too, failed, Meriloth’s patience snapped.  “Show some gratitude!”

Tense seconds dragged past while Isca debated what kind of ‘gratitude’ she was referring to. He wondered if even she knew.

Meriloth’s face twisted.  “Your companion is dead.  Accept it.”

Isca refused to dignify the taunt with a response.

Enraged even further by the vampire’s failure to react to her goading, Meriloth sneered, “So be it.  If you’ll not fight, you’re no use to me.  I’m sure it would please Throxx to split your skull.”

Isca glanced down into the courtyard, where the aforementioned giant stood on guard as always.  He considered the creature’s build, likely weight, reach and speed.  He gave a single derisive snort and shook his head dismissively.

Meriloth stormed out.

When her footsteps had died away, Isca turned back to the tomb, and laid his hands once again on its smooth curves, visualising the person who lay beneath.  He kept his vigil until dawn’s cold light began to filter into the chamber, and this time, no-one disturbed his peace.