Florence Marryat’s 1897 gothic novel The Blood of the Vampire 

Art by SquabbleJabble! Another beautiful piece of my novel's vampiric protagonist, Thorne!

I'm going as Marshal Lee, the Fiona and Cake version. But, I want to blend some of his vampire elements from the original

Basically, i want fangs! Should I go for the smaller scarecrow brand? Or, I saw a method of taking false nails, clipping them into a fang shape, then using polygrip.

Im going to a Halloween party. The person I've been seeing invited me to this party, friends of friends and some of their best friends at this 30 person party. I wanna look really good, cause they definitely have talked about me

I do think fangs really set this costume off. Between the two methods, which do you think is better?

I more than likely might have a tiny bite to eat here and there

Roleplay tag bc i didnt know what other tag

Guys it's really cold out here and I didnt think of a back up plan. What should I do?

Do you think vampires have a specific blood type they like to drink, if so what type? Would they prefer positive or negative blood types? Would they find any not tasty?

The Dracula novel mentioned sacred bullet not silver fired to the coffin after placing branch of wild rose on top so he can't escape. Dracula carried an antique silver lamp just fine.

I read an article where this self-proclaimed clergyman Montague Summers wrote that a silver bullet can kill a vampire in his book The Vampire: His Kith and Kin in 1928.

This month I spontaneously decided to launch my own Classic Universal Monster inspired franchise! It's something I've always wanted to do but didn't know how to start then one day it hit me! The first project

The Wolf Beast: Silas Silver is a Private Detective by Day and Monster hunter by night but he's also cursed... with Lycanthropy! He can turn into "The Wolf Beast" at will but is consumed by the hunger, in this film he uses his enhanced senses to find the blood den of the vampires that have been abucting people, witness the thrills and chills in this Trailer!

1. A survivor who has learned to treat trust as a liability and affection as a potential weapon. She is rarely as vulnerable as she appears, and almost never as cornered as she seems.

2. A sharp-tongued individual with an instinct for recognizing weakness and an appreciation for the finer things in life. Beneath the cynicism lies a capacity for loyalty that is difficult to earn and even harder to replace.

3. An elegant predator who understands that the most effective forms of power rarely need to announce themselves. She possesses the patience to let other people underestimate her and the ruthlessness to make them regret it.

4. A worldly observer who has learned to navigate the shifting boundaries between pleasure, survival, and power. She prefers discretion to spectacle, but her apparent detachment conceals a keen understanding of human desire.

5. A creature of contradictions who can make cruelty seem effortless and tenderness seem almost unbearable. She has survived by adapting to the desires of others without ever entirely surrendering her own instincts.

6. A composed and enigmatic figure whose presence suggests that she has lived through experiences she would rather not explain. She gives little away, leaving others to wonder whether her silence reflects wisdom, indifference, or something more dangerous.

7. An ancient soul who has spent centuries studying the delicate relationship between devotion and control. He can appear disarmingly gentle, yet beneath that gentleness lies a mind capable of extraordinary manipulation.

8. A creature of vanity and contradictions who navigates an unfamiliar world with considerably more confidence than foresight. She may appear shallow, but dismissing her entirely can be a mistake in ways that are difficult to anticipate.

9. An energetic, socially perceptive individual who approaches immortality with a determination to make something meaningful of it. Her desire for control and recognition can conceal insecurities that she would prefer nobody noticed.

10. Someone caught between the expectations of others and the uncertain freedom of discovering herself. Her innocence has not entirely disappeared, but experience has begun teaching her that goodness and survival do not always point in the same direction.

11. Three distinct personalities united by an ancient bond, an appetite for domination, and an almost theatrical disregard for ordinary morality. Their individual temperaments make them unpredictable, but together they possess a confidence that can turn even apparent playfulness into a threat.

12. A fiercely independent figure who regards allegiance as a choice rather than an obligation. She has little patience for those who confuse tradition with authority, and she is willing to challenge powers that others consider untouchable.

13. An old and formidable presence whose experience has given her a perspective that younger creatures can scarcely imagine. Beneath her composure lies a history of attachments, disappointments, and private convictions that she rarely allows others to see.

14. A disciplined and mysterious individual who seems equally comfortable with ancient knowledge and dangerous realities. She approaches the world with the reserve of someone who understands that information, properly used, can be more powerful than brute strength.

15. A refined and intellectually formidable presence whose manner suggests a long familiarity with the hidden structures of power. She possesses the sort of patience that makes it difficult to determine whether she is observing events, manipulating them, or simply waiting for the right moment to act.

16. A calculating predator who regards civilization as a convenient disguise rather than a meaningful achievement. His patience is matched by a chilling indifference to the suffering of those who happen to stand in his way.

17. An unsettling figure whose appearance and behavior suggest that ordinary human expectations have little relevance to his existence. There is something profoundly alien about his presence, as though the familiar world has become merely an incidental setting for his private obsessions.

18. A mesmerizing personality who understands the relationship between spectacle, desire, and danger. She can turn fascination into a form of control, leaving others uncertain whether they are witnessing a performance or being drawn into a trap.

19. A deeply conflicted individual caught between the values of an earlier age and the unfamiliar realities of the present. His manners suggest refinement and restraint, but beneath them linger powerful appetites, old griefs, and a persistent struggle with his own nature.

20. A sophisticated and intellectually imposing figure who regards humanity with a mixture of fascination, contempt, and weary amusement. He prefers to exercise influence through conversation and psychological pressure, though his apparent detachment conceals passions he would rather not acknowledge.

21. An ancient sovereign whose authority seems to emanate from something older and more enduring than political power. He embodies the unsettling possibility that civilization's most cultivated forms can coexist with an appetite that recognizes neither moral limits nor the rights of others.

22. A voice of cultivated cynicism who treats morality, ambition, and human weakness as subjects worthy of endless examination. He can be both an entertaining conversationalist and a profoundly dangerous adversary, particularly when someone mistakes his amusement for indifference.

So, long story short I have a little thing I am writing and for some reason, during the big parts of developing it I really focused on blood pudding. Not that kind, but like Japanese pudding, the custard stuff, however made a little different so it's made with blood (and therefore, tastes better than regular custard pudding to a vampire 😅).

It makes me wonder though, how much of human food this can be done to? Mainly desserts? I don't consume a lot of vampire media apart from a bunch of fics I've read and one *really* goes into detail about different blood dishes, like coagulated blood jellies and plasma, different kinds of blood from certain blood types, diets etc etc (and I frickin' love it), but what about human foods?

Ig if this doesn't really apply, it makes sense because in what world would vampires really consume human food? Well, for me (and I'm gonna guess a lot of places, please educate me😭) in this lovely little universe it is a thing, as it, along with regularly consuming blood, ofc, makes a vampire look more "human." There's details for that, but it's a lot of words and I don't wanna do any lore dumps😭😭😭

As for how the custard pudding would be made, the standard molds would be used and the little bit of caramel at the bottom. The custard would be made normally, but instead of using additional egg yolks to thicken the mixture, blood would and it'd be carefully mixed with the warm cream so as to not mess with the proteins and stuff. It's used as a thickening agent for the custard :3

Why is it a thing and why is the protagonist making them? Because her lovely vampire roommate loved pudding as a human 😅😅

I know cooking with blood isn't easy as ofc, when it comes to heat, it denatures and turns into a sort of blob, but I also know of actual dishes (one actually similar to the custard pudding, Italian, I believe) that include blood. I feel like it'd be super easy to use blood as a thickening agent for desserts and stuff. You could probably source blood from people with certain diets that make it taste sweeter? Idk 🫠

Also, I'm new here, I hope this is the right tag?? I apologize if it isn't djhshahjakfjdj

edit: wait i don't think you can use it as a thickening agent ._. i think my plans have been foiled 😭😭😭😭😭😭

edit to my panicked edit: plans are fine lol

I sent this once before and still Curious… But has anyone ever heard of, or remember a Short Video on YouTube called (“Japanese Girl Bitten by Old Vampire”)??? It was on YouTube like over 10 years ago, but was taken down. I’m still trying to find it and figure out where it was from… Thank you!!!

Hello! I like vampires a lot :)

I have some ideas and some worldbuilding done, as that comes to me really easily, and I know some scenes I want, but I have so much trouble making a story that connects all these scenes!

I've seen some of you guys workshopping your own stories here, so I wanted to ask how you did it!

Did you just write individual scenes and add names/personality/plot later?

Did you make a plot/premise first, and create the rest around it?

Did you also make the world first?

How much have you written?

How many projects do you have going, how many have you finished?

Hoping to maybe take some inspiration from your processes and finally start putting out some damn words!

By order of the Countess the new impaler began the process of slow torture for the intruder Praetorius by stabbing the point of their longest war pike into the space of soft meat just behind the testicles, between the anus and the genitals. Where one might get saddle sore from riding a four-legged beast all day…

… the sound elicited from the now writhing and squirming invader was exquisite …

 … the Countess smiled. And cooed. Lovingly. Already so enraptured, exhilarated. Ecstasy. So in-love with the whole process already at the onset, so in-love with the piercing. The thrust of puncture. She salivated as she prepared to bathe her enemy in pure torture.

The mad doctor’s shrill sounds went beyond mere screams or anything in the meager realm of the auditory. The entire length and body of the long and dread war pike, the impaling spear was stabbed up and fed through his torso until it stabbed up and out of the flesh of his naked back. Their monstrous animal-heightened dæmonic senses aided the new impaler and his master together in guiding the sharp and piercing head of the weapon-tool up and through and around any vital internal organs so as not to rupture any of the precious meats. They didn't want the fool to die too quickly. 

The blood ran down the length of shaft as the impaling pike was hoisted up in the center of the room, Praetorius stabbed through at its center. Blood ran down its wooden shaft and body. Copiously. The pair, Master Countess and her new impaler both licked and lapped and sipped with pursed lips from the reddening wet length of stabbing impalement. Tonguing at the furious cascade of red river that was the fool's running precious blood. 

Doctor Praetorius had never known such wretchedly sharp and complete agony. Complete wretched pain. Red and alive and in total focused control of his all too aware and alive waking mind. Livid with fire and alive with open flesh fury. He could feel the vibrations of the long body of spear  against his trembling spinal column. Rattling against each other like the weapons of soldiers shoulder to shoulder along battlements with every single ear shattering shriek. Constant. They never stopped. The sanity snapping pain never ceased. They fed each other and he shrieked, skewered, impaled as the monsters of this castle were cackling and lapping at his bloodshed running down the length of great spear. Words were beyond him. His bladder let go. The demons laughed. The Countess commanded the new impaler to tongue and lap the spilling filth and the lowly undead knight and servant did so. As the master Countess Zaleska commanded, always and forever thus… 

They tongued and lapped more blood like dogs and they let the impaled Praetorius bleed and shriek ungodly sounds. Filling the castle with the piercing song of its wretched cacophony of bastard music. They relished the discordant collection of clashing sound, echoed and reverberated. Bouncing and alive and jumping all through the halls and along the stone of the ancient wall and out and into the mountains… 

 … the wolves joined in. Howling in contest.

The Countess Zaleska ordered more spears. More impalement. More piercing and defilement of the intruding dog's bastard flesh and inner ruptured and running spilling red: the crimson raw. Mangle. Pierce. Puncture. Penetration. Deepest. Multiple points. All over and all about. 

Through the wrists and the meat of his upper legs, his thighs. Through each of his feet as well. All impaled through with long spears of war that ran parallel and perpendicular depending on the placement. A crisscross and intersect of stabbing smooth bodies of killing impaling battle pikes all lanced through screaming raw running scarlet and muscle tissue and flesh amongst and so carefully around his organs so as to render him so helpless and yet still alive… like a butterfly captured and pinned to the collection of the killing board, left there only to struggle and flap its wings. 

Then the Countess changed her shape before the impaled and helpless mad doctor… and Praetorius felt his last vestige of sanity shred and snap and the tiny remnant pieces slip away…

His screams then became something else entirely. 

Her head and face melted and sloughed into runny mess that transmogrified into a bulbous amphibious wide-mouthed horror. Sliming and dooling, translucent bands and ropey cords of fleshen alchemical snot. A wide mouthed and horned toad. Eyes, wet black spheres that held terrible intelligence in their ebon depths. Slightly rodent and chiroptera features deranged the large and gaping wet visage of swampland horror, long ears and fangs and a wide cavernous nose of glistening pink tissue, like the wide inviting amorous open gate of a spread legged lover… running and congesting with milky translucence and pungent fluid.

Wide mouthed, gaping and fanged and toad faced, the demon wench that held this hellcrafted domain came in and her wide sliming black fanged mouth closed around one of his impaled and helpless hands. The wide mouth closed and at first there was strong wet sucking sensation, almost pleasant. After all the torture. 

But then the pain and horror of his flesh was reawakened and renewed… he could feel the flesh of his hand coming off in a slough. 

The sliming putrid toad mouth of the Countess, set between a pair of regal and very thin and small ladylike shoulders was pulling the flesh and meat from his fingers and palms… gloving him with her horrible and wretched poison witch-drool… 

The enzymes of the Countess' toad woman mouth turned the meat of his hand and fingers to a runny snot of soupy meaty blood and half broken down ligament and cartilage. All the way down to the wrist. 

The foul mongoloid mongrel monstrosity of amphibian batwoman visage and ghastly form then began to moan in deep pleasure and bright and private jubilancy. Obscene wet organ globes of obsidian eyes closing and clenching tightly shut and winking in strange animal ecstacy, demoniacal and insane. 

Ichor wept thickly from the toad eyes of black glistening organ globes. Wet with life and relish and love and savor of the human flavor of organ pain. And of fleshen defilement. And of life shed unwilling and in violence tempered and changed like wine does in dark casks. 

The song of pain was alive in Praetorius’ throat again and the toad faced horror that was the transmogrified and witchery Countess’ conjured visage was pleased. It was just what she wanted the little maggot to say. 

Just the notes she wished… she bade he thus spake. 

And her whore filled the night with scream-song and blood and his pathetic running snot and tears. . Trying to sing his pain away. 

The poor fool didn’t realize that the Countess and her new impaler were just getting started with him.  

They might take forever with the little invader. 

Just might.

…

The demand of the forest would be met. Answered by the deranged and filthy haggard woodland vagrant lord. Answered in the violent act of the perfect prayer: Bodily Dismemberment. 

The axeman, Lord Bloodmud, Christian name now long gone and lost, forgotten and only remembered or recalled in the most painful and private of blood-hatching moments… he hefted the twinheaded double blade of weapon that was his last and only companion and friend. He eyed the boy and the bandaged fellow from the darkness of his hiding place. Amongst the tangled death of foliage. Amongst the trees. He spied them as they ate and smoked pipes by the fire. Tended The mule. They hardly spoke at all. 

It mattered not. He had no ear for such as they any way. Only the woods and her dark contained the sounds and natural songs he desired to hear. Only the wild. Only the woods. Only the peace and quiet of the stillness shroud of his greenland place of known shadow. 

And … as of of late, that strange and howling sound that came out of the far off mountains. Especially at night. It was a bestial sound, an untamed song of predatorial prowl. It was beautiful. Alluring. 

He swore it sounded like a woman. He swore she sounded like royalty. Like she already knew the butchery abattoir moan of the painful hungry end, and what it showed revelatory when brought and force fed to the fragile fore… 

there was painful beauty in that far off voice. A voice that already knew agony so well, how its cold embrace felt. 

When alone. 

A voice already intimate, already well and close acquainted with the wisdom of the hungering rotting soil, the gnashing violent tectonic teeth of the earth… already in bed and in lover's embrace with what the pain of unbridled lusting bloodlett-slaughtering veil of the end will bestow … a knowledge of all of the Hells and infernal worlds that could be scarcely scratched at or conjured by mere human imagination or thought. 

A knowledge of exquisite perfect pain. Lonely. That royal mountain woman voice. A crimson voice, with a darkling red eye in the swirling black of his mind when he closed  his own eyes and closely listened… a darkling scarlet devil's eye of witchery power is what filled in the dark of his own thoughts when he heard her song and he tried to conjure its author. 

That royal pained and lonely regal voice. 

But it was a far off voice that knew how to mete out pain as well. Of that his own praeternatural animal killing senses told him that it was so. He was sure of it. That was why he felt such magic at the royal sad song of the far off mountain woman. She understood. Its wielder and phantasm owner understood the worldly terms of slaughter. Its dictations. All the lands were a kingdom ruled and that Lord God was Death and the lands were all of them: killing fields. 

Waste lands. 

Thirsting starving always hungering earth. No matter how stuffed she was with corpses, no matter how many bodies you fed into her charnel house soil womb those bodies digested in her crawling hungry bosom. And then the earth desired more. The soil and her offspring green needed more fresh blood and meat to fill their hungry mouths composed of shallow graves of shadow, by nightfall or shade of tree. Their only death shroud in his land of thirsting forest was shadow and darkness, he never bothered burying the pieces of dismembered meat. Those were for the wolves and rats and crawling foul life of many stalks and eyes and skittering legs. 

Though sometimes he liked to come back to these scenes of slaughter and watch the pieces putrefy. Liquify… slough off into wet rot that smelled faintly pleasant to his maddened senses. The smell and sight of the putrescence was calming for the axeman. Lord Bloodmud loved to watch the slow, deliberate and brutal work of nature. The mother hand was slow yet effective and she took it all the way down to the bone, always. 

Like he and his axe. 

He loved watching the pieces become putrescence and then nothing. It was like watching the great nature of mother earth slowly cooking. Slowly breaking down the willful and disobedient little invader into blackening green meat for the mouth of soil again. To make infant green land. 

It was calming. And like the axe he thought of it as one of his last and only remaining comforts. One of his last and only friends. 

He watched the fools from the dark and waited. 

…

Frankenstein’s patchwork nosferatu creation had engaged in much necromantic practice the past day, after the night it had brought the sepulchral structure of boy-and-goat back from the grave. 

Reanimation games. It was obsessed with pulling things apart and bringing the pieces back to unholy crawling life. Some he fashioned into more haphazard deranged sculptures, more bastard life-shape structures as he had with the boy and his crying little beasts. Goring, tearing and forcing together severed parts and pieces, limbs stabbed into raw new fashion and bastard shape by their protruding ends of dripping stabbing bone. Then he called the lightning and thunderclapped the unholy designs into wretched movement again. 

But the wicked flicker of bastard dark goblin flame inside the moving parts and demented moving edifice structures never lasted. It always died out. Perished within the morbid arrangements of meat like the meager flames of  small candles caught within the assault of maelstrom wind. 

The Frankenstein nosferatu monster angered. Frustrated. He wished to construct and conjure servants, pawns of raw and rot. Soldiers. An army of bastard and deranged flesh and putrid sloughing step to invade the castle of the mountains. 

Frankenstein himself understood. The patchwork hulking monster child of his table had already explained, and he knew as well before all this. Of the Vampyr and vvurdalak and strigoi nosferatu creatures … his child of the table could not simply sneak inside. None of their kind could. He must be invited in. 

Or send his constructs of damaged and demented haphazard flesh… of which none could even last let alone survive the assault and emerge as victor. 

Doctor Frankenstein smiled. 

And said: –

“I might have a plan, my child. I might have a way to your opponent in the castle." 

…

Praetorius couldn’t believe how gorgeous she truly was, how absolutely beautiful. Even as she feasted. Lips and mouth stained and dyed a deeper shade than wine. 

She pulled another piece of liver from the gaping open hole of wet red and brought it to her glistening lips, her darkling glistening fanged mouth. The gored open wound was alive and shrieking dark with total pain but he was glad to be an open gate and womb-hole and nourishment for his master. His new lord, the Countess. He never should have challenged her and invaded the domain of her home, the mountain castle. As he watched her, watched her as she ate… he now understood. True power. He now understood the error of his ways. 

Gravity pulled. He shivered. The force of the earthen ground was just as hungry as the master and her new impaler. He felt his body slowly slide down the long length of torturing war weapon. Mere centimeters. Miles and miles, cruel parsecs every dragging miniscule length inside the helter skelter of his shrieking screaming inner raw, raped by lancing killing device trembling and quivering luridly throughout all of his torn and weapon fucked form. Trembling and eager to die for the master now, was his wet and red running frame. Raw and opened, torn open all over. So that daggering hands and claws might come in and fist, reach in and take and pluck because he was now their wonderful and new raw open fruit basket. Filled with pulp and juice. Filled with lurid forbidden fruit. The master, the Countess said so. 

And it filled his mind. 

She found what she wanted in the shattered and fascinating remnants of his mind. She sifted through his thoughts and memories and dreams like broken and strewn detritus of decimated pottery and vases. A decimated mind. A decimated person and world. They were just interesting pieces to her and the ever-reaching foul touch of her ethereal phantasm hand. It invaded and clawed into his broken mind and splintered thoughts… sifting. 

Finding all sorts of interesting things. 

Frankenstein. 

His creation. 

His bold claim. A monster made wielding the fangs of Count Dracula…

fools. 

Fools. 

They were mere imposters. Fakes wielding counterfeit power. Pretenders. 

Pretenders she would crush. Pretenders and invaders that she would conquer. 

The sharp and strangling phantasmal grip squeezed. Tightened. 

Her voice filled his inner world of broken thought. 

Your knowledge. All of your work and findings. The results of your experiments with life and death and the necromantic power between them, give it to me. It is mine now, as you are now – as are you. And your blood and ruined flesh. My food and drink, my aphrodisiac and nourishing conquered land that once bore the flag of your soul and name… I will take it all. 

I will take it all. Your knowledge. And I will add it to my own. 

Her bright cruel laughter then filled the world of his skull. 

There was one part… one particular bit of mad scrap of thought amongst the wreckage of the man's mind that immediately caught her attention. 

Human culture farms. Flesh gardens. 

Human life, human beings… grown. 

From out of a petri dish. 

Interesting… 

She continued the assault and rape of his mind even as she and her new impaler continued the feasting conquest of his lanced and raw open form. Reaching in and fisting. Ripping. Crushing to meaty bloody pulp between clenching fingers. Brought to stained mouths like messy children grubby with the excitement of mealtime eating. They made themselves decadent with their piggish and wanton display of sinful maneating hoggery. 

Ghastly. And gaining redder and more wet and lurid by the moment. The scene. The scene of slaughter. The darkening and deepening of the bodily wound and impaling raping war pike spear now feeling nearly conjoined with his screaming tortured form coincided… fed and informed and made the deepening dark of this grisly feasting castle scene of the night. 

The wolves of the mountains howled. Full. 

It was a full moon. 

The Countess plucked another plum-sized piece of organ-meat from the open basket of wet glistening black-red. The new impaler added another lance, as ordered by her majesty. 

The feast continued into the night of the pregnant moon. 

…

The people of the mountains were fools. Those in the hamlet below had been cowed… quelled. They knew better. 

But the mountain dwellers. The ones in little huts, spread out, in thin numbers… they could be excited and stirred and called to action. Henry Frankenstein knew this. 

And stir and call he did. 

He promised payment. From out of his family fortune. Of which there was pitifully little left. Thoroughly diminished. But the filthy mountain men and their lads knew no better. They were stupid. And superstitious as well as hungry, greedy. He only had to say the right words to get them all banded together and set off. Bearing torch and flame and axes and pitchforks! Into the night! 

Into the night and up the mountain, screaming. 

Up the cold and full moon lighted way, up the Borgo Pass. Screaming. 

“Death to Dracula! the Nosferatu! Death to the monster!”

Death to the monster! 

Frankenstein’s own hulking patchwork of sutured necromanced and hungry walking flesh followed the rabble of dirty mountain farmers. Following. And watching. 

Waiting. 

…

The fierce pale glow of the moon, pregnant and full of light on high, came through and pierced the thick canopy of dark trees. The axeman Lord Bloodmud was hunkered amongst its growth. One of the denser parts, patches. Watching. Watching the invading boy and the strange man with a mask of bandages. They sat around a fire. Having finished their meager meal, they sipped warm wine and smoked spicy tobacco. Clouds thick and pungent and sweet on the night chill of the nocturne air. They swam through the space of night and clouded their small place of camp. The axeman thought and knew he saw faces in them. Swirling and in pain in the clouds of shifting and dancing shapes. 

A thought, unbidden, filled his head then: –

the woman of the mountains with regal song knows how to shift and dance shape as well … 

… and then was gone. 

But a Satanic seed was planted. Had been planted sometime ago. And had grown sour in the corpse soil. Grown. And festered. 

A gaping open wound of the mind. Filled with liquid infection. Gushing. Pouring. 

Pus-thought. Infection in my blood that moves my hands…

… the axeman Lord Bloodmud shivered and let the half-grasped and managed and understood train of thought falter and fail. And slip away. He had no use for such thoughts. Not while prowling. Not when the hour of the killing was nigh and upon him, the face of the earth. The face of his domain and thirsting soil… would drink. Would feed. 

Tonight. 

Now. 

He coiled, muscles practiced and honed… tightened. Tension behind the mountain of sinew like a crossbow drawn… quivering, ready to fire. And fly. Attack. 

But something strange happened then. Something that stopped and stilled the giant mountain of forest dwelling axeman.

A hand. Pale and bare and slender emerged from the body of dark thick foliage not far from his hunkering prowling form. It slid out from the bushes like a snake. The pale moonlight that bled in through the top illuminated the hand, wrist and arm that suddenly emerged, palm out in token of parley. A fleshen serpent of bone and blood and invading manflesh in his private sacred forest garden. 

That wasn't what stopped the giant. He might've just lunged and chopped the mysterious appendage off with a single swing, taking the new bastard unwanted growth out and off at the root just as its growth started and threatened his blood soaking and feasting, his precious drinking and final last Eden. 

It was the pentagram. The five pointed star of the infernal one, cast out. His sigil and sign. In red. His dark and evil bastard symbol. In his Eden. Stygian it shone as it was tattooed and brandished on the splayed out naked palm of this sudden intruding limb of serpent manflesh. 

A voice then spoke, its owner: –

“No, friend. That won't do. They've a ways to go yet. And I've a ways to follow…”

The moonlight cast down upon the hand of Satanic stars and false parley in cascading pale illumination… changing it. 

The axeman felt the ice of his own horror grow colder in thickening blood. Trying to quicken in a galloping heart. His own head and thoughts felt far away now. Dreamy and gone. Gone already. 

He felt detached as he watched the hand bearing pentagram on palm grow fur and longer and long black nails at the tips. Claws. For ripping and tearing. For rending down to the running blood, your screaming victim of the hunt. 

Caught. 

The moonlight glow of the occult moon, pregnant and full on high and through the fortress dome of the forest kingdom, bled in and changed the rest of the man as he arose from the thick dense of forest growth. The moonlight glow changed the rest of him as he arose also. 

Ebon hair. Elongated. Teeth. Bones snapped as they doubled in size and grew. Muscle tissue tore with the sound of ripping leather even as it suddenly sprouted a hideous thick coat of coarse and black hunting fur. The stranger of the pentagram on hand in the dark rose and transmogrified into an older horror than the axeman had ever been or ever known. 

The executioner's doubleheaded killing blade fell from his slackening grip. His hands still perspiring and damp but now cold with another animal emotion. One the axeman had not felt in such a long time. Fear. 

Terror seized his mind and its animal canvas went blank. The werewolf with the pentagram sigil mark came in and the final mutilation of Lord Bloodmud began. And his supplicant and loyal forest floor did drink. Deep. 

Deeply. 

…

Florin and Griffin only stirred once in the night, together. The howl of a large wolf somewhere in the surrounding forest. 

They added more wood to the fire. And reluctantly returned to sleep. What they found in the morning was disturbing. And grisly. 

…

They came upon the remains of the large man in the morning, as they just begun to move and start that day's leg of the journey. Raw pieces crudely butchered by ripping claw and rending gnashing teeth. Swimming in gore in the rough bipedal manshape of a mutilated forest vagrant. 

Disturbed, the pair went on. Wondering what beast or monster had done it. Thanking God that it hadn't gotten them instead in the night. 

The stranger continued to follow them. Keeping to their lengthening shadows.

TO BE CONTINUED …

Does this subreddit allow people to post their vampire media-inspired writings here? Specifically, I am inspired by Bram Stoker's Dracula, and it's a love story between a vampire hunter and a vampire princess. It's written in the style of journal entries, kind of like in the movie and the original book. I already posted the first chapter on Reddit, but I am unsure whether to continue or post it somewhere else.

Still not clear if music goes here or real life art unless I’m just missing the music tab altogether.

I’m so proud of this piece hehe

Hi all, I’m watching The Last Voyage of the Demeter for the first time and I just had a quick question - why is the plan for them to go and start opening crates?

Like they had at least a day to go till London. Why not just escape on rowboats and set the boat on fire during daylight hours once they establish that sunlight is a weakness? They would have defeated Dracula in ways that they couldn’t have possibly imagined given that they also would have messed up all of his ancestral dirt.

This may be a daft question but I would appreciate any answers because I personally don’t understand the decisions made after they realise they’re on a boat and sunlight is this thing’s weakness.

My vamps and wolves aren't part shark or killer whale, but they're like an equivalent. A parallel of sorts. My vamps and wolves exist within the same spectrum, and have much in common, amidst their more well known differences.

My werewolves also don't grow extra hair. So their either a pretty hairy person already... or end up hairless in their werewolf form. 😁

Unsure if using the right flair!

I'm a background designer for 2D animation working on a career development project for my portfolio. I want to design a vampire convenience store, like a 24/hr, 711 type establishment that exists in a world of vampire customers. I'll be designing all the props that line the shelves and signage as well.

Think sanguine slurpee machine, 100 SPF sunscreen, plasma energy drinks, fake ID/paperwork counter, etc.

What would a modern day vampire need at a convenience store if such a place existed?