❝Immortality isn’t a gift. It’s a sentence—and I never confessed.❞

Rules of Contact

❝I do not hunt for hunger. I hunt to remind the world it forgot me.❞

Dossier.

❝I was the first. I am the forgotten. I am what waits when history lies.❞

History and Lore

❝I do not want your love. I want your silence when I leave.❞

Vexyne moved through the ancient forest at twilight as if she were part of it, each step careful and kind. In those early days, she was a gentle soul—a young witch with hair of midnight and eyes that reflected dawn’s first light. The trees themselves seemed to bow as she passed, branches murmuring in a language of rustling leaves. Animals that others called feral would approach her without fear: a timid doe nuzzling her palm, a fox trailing at her heels like a loyal pup.
Under her touch, even wilting flowers lifted their heads anew, blooming in vivid colors as though eager to please their beloved caretaker. Mortals from the nearby village whispered about the maiden of the woods who could charm the wild and heal the sick with a smile as pure as spring. They left small gifts at the edge of the trees—fresh bread, jars of honey, carved wooden trinkets—in gratitude and quiet reverence, for they admired and adored her almost as much as they feared the rest of her kind.
But within her hidden world of witches, Vexyne was the outlier, the black sheep of her coven. In an assembly of crones hardened by ambition and arcane arts, she alone cherished the warmth of life. She was beautiful in a way that seemed to defy the harshness of their craft: flawless fair skin that caught the moonlight, a laugh that rang like a brook over smooth stones, and an earnest compassion that witches were not meant to possess. While her sisters brewed poisons and summoned storms, Vexyne gathered herbs for salves to ease pain. While they muttered curses, she sang to owl and oak alike. They called her naive, soft-hearted—a witch too pretty and too gentle for her own good. Some sneered that her beauty was a glamour, a deceit; others whispered that no witch so beloved by mortals could be loyal to her own blood. Jealousy coiled in the coven’s heart like a venomous serpent, fangs bared at the sight of her gifts and grace.Still, Vexyne loved her sisters dearly, blind to the envy that festered behind their forced smiles. She believed in the sisterhood of the coven, in the oath they all swore beneath the full moon to protect one another. She did not see how their eyes lingered too long on her radiant face or how their voices tightened when they spoke of the villagers’ praises. She did not hear the plotting that took place in hushed midnights when she slipped away to dance barefoot in the glades. Had she known, her tender heart might have broken sooner.
The betrayal came on the eve of a lunar eclipse, when the moon bled red and shadows draped the forest like funeral cloth. The coven convened in a clearing encircled by ancient stones etched with runes of power. Vexyne was delighted by the invitation, naive hope fluttering in her chest that at last her sisters accepted her fully. She arrived wearing a simple white gown, a crown of night-blooming jasmine woven into her dark hair—symbols of the purity and love she harbored. The others greeted her with outstretched hands and soft words, masking malice behind their courtesy. A tense energy crackled in the air like the charge before a lightning strike. Vexyne felt a prickle of unease but quelled it; these were her sisters, her family. Why should she fear?They formed a circle around her beneath the dying moonlight. Under the guise of a special ceremony to honor the eclipse, they led her to stand upon a flat stone slick with herbal oils and old magic. Seven sisters joined hands and chanted in low, wavering voices. Vexyne recognized the cadence—a spell of binding and transmutation—and her pulse quickened with alarm. Before she could react, cold metal snapped around her wrists and ankles. Shackles, wrought with sigils that sapped her strength, clamped her in place. Her gentle voice faltered as she pleaded, confusion and betrayal warring in her heart. The jasmine crown tumbled from her hair to the ground as she struggled, its petals bruising on the unforgiving stone.
The coven’s matriarch stepped forward, her once-kind eyes now alight with triumph. “Be still, child,” the elder witch cooed, though cruelty laced her tone. “Tonight, you fulfill your true purpose.” Vexyne’s protest died in her throat as the sisters began their dreadful rite. Jealousy had driven them to a dark discovery: an ancient incantation, forbidden and foul, that would merge witchcraft and vampiric curse into one being. They hungered to control all supernatural power, to command the night and the magic alike—and Vexyne, the sweet, trusting blossom of their order, was the key. Her beauty, her gentleness, her innate connection to life would make the perfect bait to snare the essence of blood and darkness. She would become the first of a new breed, the coven’s creation and puppet, a creature to rule all others and bend them to the coven’s will.Bound and frightened, Vexyne felt tears burn her eyes as the ceremony unfolded. The witches pricked their fingers and let hot blood drip into a chalice, mixing with crushed mandrake and nightshade. They forced the bitter potion to Vexyne’s lips. She choked on the metallic taste, throat burning as she swallowed the coven’s concoction. They encircled her, their chanting rising in fevered intensity. One by one, her sisters cut their palms and smeared a bloody sigil onto her skin—her forehead, her wrists, over her heart—each symbol carved in crimson to bind a part of her soul. These were ancient sigils of Bloodscript, runes of living blood that crawled on her skin with a will of their own. Each mark whispered to her, a cacophony of voices—some taunting, some mournful—speaking in languages she did not know but whose meaning she felt in her bones: sacrifice... betrayal... rise...
Vexyne’s screams echoed through the trees as the curse took hold. Agony, cold and searing, flooded her veins. Her heart thudded wildly, then faltered, caught between life and death. The coven continued their chant, louder, exultant, as her slender form writhed against the shackles. She felt as if her blood were boiling, then freezing to ice, surging with unnatural force. The forest responded to the dark magic: wind whipped without direction, the once gentle trees now groaned and twisted as if in pain, and the very shadows around the clearing pooled thickly at Vexyne’s feet.
When she opened her eyes, the eclipse was at totality—the moon hung like an open wound in the sky, painting the world in red.Something inside Vexyne snapped. Perhaps it was her kind heart finally breaking, or the final tether of humanity tearing away. She threw back her head and a scream ripped from her throat—a sound not quite human, filled with despair and unquenched hunger. The shackles that held her arms shuddered as a wave of raw power surged from her body.
Her transformation had begun. Vexyne’s once warm brown eyes gleamed now with a feral glint of violet purple, catching the bloody moonlight as if ignited from within. Before the coven’s horrified gaze, the gentle witch’s visage shifted into something otherworldly. Her ears tapered to elegant points, reminiscent of the fae but keener, attuned to every terrified heartbeat around her. Her skin, once flushed with the bloom of life, smoothed to a porcelain perfection, flawless and cold, luminescent like a statue carved from moonlight. A deadly beauty settled upon her, so intense it sent shivers of awe and dread through those who beheld her. When her lips parted in a ragged gasp, they revealed the gleam of new fangs—delicate, ivory, and razor-sharp against the curve of her mouth.An aura unfurled from Vexyne in a palpable wave. The coven staggered, some crying out as they felt it wash over them. It was as though the night itself bent toward her, drawn by an ancient, primal need. This aura—the First Hunger—warped the very space around her. The air distorted in hazy ripples; the stones beneath her feet cracked as if reality itself buckled under the weight of her grief and fury. Aether, the unseen currents of magic that flowed through the world, swelled violently in her presence. The witches felt their own powers spiral out of control—candles flared into towering flames and then died, charms they carried crumbled to dust, and the edges of their vision blurred as madness tickled their minds. Obsession and dread gripped them without reason; one witch’s face twisted into a grin of rapture as she dropped to her knees, entranced by the overwhelming aura, while another clawed at her eyes, sobbing as whispers only she could hear filled her with terror. Vexyne’s very existence had become a catalyst of obsession and insanity.The matriarch, fighting the wave of consuming power, shouted for the coven to subdue their creation. They rushed to complete the ritual, their voices quaking through the final incantation to bind Vexyne’s will. But the First Hunger had awakened fully now. Vexyne’s senses reeled—she could hear the frantic staccato of blood pulsing in the witches’ veins, smell the fear sweating from their skin like a sweet perfume. A red haze of desire and rage clouded her mind. The once-gentle girl was drowning beneath an ocean of hunger: hunger for vengeance, for blood, for release from the anguish that clawed at her soul.Two sisters lunged to restrain her, and in that instant Vexyne moved with a speed and grace unnatural. The shackles that had held her exploded apart—as if some invisible force answered her silent plea for freedom—and she was suddenly behind the nearest witch. Instinct guided her, dark and ancient. Vexyne slid her slender hand around the witch’s throat, and leaned in close. The witch tried to utter a spell, but when she met Vexyne’s eyes, the words died on her tongue. Vexyne’s gaze bore into her, glowing embers in the dark, and the trembling witch fell under a Crimson Thrall. In those eyes the witch saw not the sweet sister she’d betrayed, but an abyss of desire and despair that ensnared her very mind. Vexyne did not yet understand the power she wielded, but it poured from her naturally: a hunger-driven seduction woven into every breath, every glance, every whispered word.“Dear sister,” Vexyne purred softly, voice laced with a compelling sweetness that belied the fangs glinting at her lips, “don’t be afraid.” The words themselves were like a spell. The captured witch’s struggles ceased; her eyes glazed in a dazed adoration laced with terror. Beneath the horror, she suddenly would have done anything to please Vexyne, to be of use, to earn a drop of favor. The Crimson Thrall had taken hold—a dark gift awakened by Vexyne’s first taste of betrayal and blood. With a gentle push, Vexyne sent the enthralled witch stumbling into her sisters, knocking them down like rag dolls.Chaos erupted. The circle of stones was now a tableau of pandemonium: some witches trying to flee, others hurling spells in frantic fear. But the clearing itself rebelled under Vexyne’s influence. Shadows swirled and stretched unnaturally, extinguishing the witchlight lanterns. The darkness under the trees seemed to come alive, forming shapes at the edges of sight. In her anguish and wrath, Vexyne’s magic—once green and gentle—twisted into something theatrical and macabre. She remembered the lullabies she once sang to the woods and, with a broken sob, now gave life to a different song: a lilting murmur that dripped with sorrow and malice in equal measure.As her words fell upon the night, illusions bloomed like black roses from the darkness—a Velvet Veil drawn from the fabric of desire and fear. To the fleeing witches, the clearing transformed: where there had been one Vexyne, now dozens of phantom figures emerged between the trees, each more horrifyingly beautiful than the last, their eyes glowing with cruel mirth. One witch stumbled as the visage of her own deceased mother stepped out from behind an oak, face twisted in disappointment. Another shrieked as the ground at her feet seemed to drop away into a void teeming with slithering shapes. Yet to one ensnared by guilty love for the girl they’d sacrificed, an illusion of Vexyne approached not as a monster, but as the innocent maiden she had been—flowers in her hair, tears in her eyes—asking “Why would you hurt me?” in a voice that pierced the heart. Truth and lies wove together indistinguishably. Each witch was trapped in her own theater of dread and longing, courtesy of the Velvet Veil that Vexyne had subconsciously cast: a grand, horrific play that blurred reality and nightmare.Under this onslaught of horrors and temptations, the coven fell apart. Some fainted, others ran madly into the forest, and a few simply collapsed in despair, their minds unable to bear the illusions tearing at their deepest regrets and fears. The matriarch alone remained, swaying in place by sheer will, chanting a desperate counter-spell beneath her breath. Vexyne, through the haze of rage, focused on the elder who had orchestrated this cruel fate. With a snarl, she strode toward the leader of the coven. The old witch’s shaking hands raised a dagger—the ritual blade still slick with Vexyne’s blood from the ceremony. She lunged, aiming for Vexyne’s heart.
Vexyne caught the dagger barehanded. The blade bit into her palm and dark blood welled. But the pain only sharpened her new senses. She felt the warm blood trickle down her wrist and, almost instinctively, she turned this injury into yet another weapon. Dipping two fingers into her own blood, Vexyne carved a quick sigil in the air between them. The symbol hung, written in luminous red that glowed against the darkness. Its lines writhed as if alive—a Bloodscript born of her will. The matriarch’s dagger hand faltered as the hanging sigil began to whisper. The sound was subtle at first—gentle, almost pleading—but it grew into a chorus of voices that echoed with the authority of ancient forces awakened. It spoke secrets of the old witch’s heart, each word a cutting truth she had long buried: Cruel. Envious. Murderer. The matriarch howled, clutching her head as the floating blood sigil before her wreathed itself around the dagger’s blade and slid up her arm like a serpent.With a flare of scarlet light, the Bloodscript sigil exploded into dozens of tiny runes that crawled over the matriarch’s skin, forming chains of murmuring letters. Doors hidden in the air itself seemed to open then—small rifts, creaking ajar around the clearing—as if the night were pulling aside a curtain to reveal what lay beyond mortal sight. From one such invisible door came a gust of wind that extinguished the coven’s altar fire; from another, a keening wail as spirits beyond the veil bore witness. These sigils were not mere marks but living spells, and they had forced open the secret paths and warnings that even the coven had feared to tread. The matriarch backed away, trying to speak an unbinding charm, but the blood runes on her body tightened and she found herself voiceless, her own magic turned against her.
Silence fell in the clearing, broken only by the ragged breathing of the defeated witches and the crackle of dying embers. Vexyne stood over the coven’s leader, chest heaving as she tried to contain the hurricane of power and emotion within her. Horror slowly replaced the fury in her eyes as she looked around at what she had wrought. The sisters who had betrayed her now cowered or lay senseless, undone by the very forces they had sought to control. In the wind’s sigh through the clearing, Vexyne heard the last whispers of the illusions she had cast—sobs of regret, cries for mercy, fragments of lullabies—and she almost mistook them for the forest’s lament.She should have felt triumphant vengeance, but instead an immense sorrow settled on her bones. The hunger still twisted inside her, craving completion, craving blood to seal her transformation fully. Her tongue ran over her aching fangs. She loathed the desire that gnawed at her, yet it was part of her now. Vexyne knelt by the fallen matriarch, and with a gentle, almost compassionate motion, closed the old woman’s wide, fear-stricken eyes. Whether the witch yet lived or was merely trapped in torment, Vexyne did not know. Perhaps it was better not to know.The first rays of dawn began to pale the sky, the eclipse passed and the moonlight fading. Vexyne realized with a start that the sun was coming—yet she felt no warmth or comfort from that knowledge. Where once she had greeted each

In a hidden grotto beneath the world’s dark eaves, Vexyne awoke in agony. The air was damp and heavy with the copper-sweet scent of spilled blood – her blood – pooling around the altar where she lay. The witches’ incantations still hung in the air like a noxious haze, their echoes slithering through the gloom. She remembered the moment of trust turned treachery: a promise of healing and solace, twisted into a sacrament of ruin. Betrayal had been the midwife to her new existence, and now the life she never agreed to was being siphoned from her veins to birth abominations.Her heart, once fiercely alive, had been stilled; now only a hollow ache remained in her chest, and a thirst like fire coursed through every vein. Around her, candlelight danced in delirious patterns, illuminating hooded figures and grotesque shadows on the stone walls. Vexyne’s wrists were raw against iron shackles etched with binding runes. She strained against them weakly, watching in horror as one witch dipped a chalice into the crimson pool of her spilled life. Each drop that left her body felt like the theft of something sacred. She tried to cry out – to beg why – but her voice was a ragged whisper lost beneath the witches’ chants. This was the aftermath of her unwilling transformation: not a rebirth but a violation, a gentle soul condemned to undeath by cruel design.Vexyne could only witness in helpless dread as the witches carried the brimming chalice to a circle of silent forms laid out on cold stone slabs. Four figures, deathly still, had been arranged around her like the points of a wicked star, awaiting the unhallowed communion of her stolen blood. The witches anointed each lifeless body’s lips and brow with Vexyne’s essence, murmuring spells older than the bones of the earth. One by one, those figures began to stir—puppets jerked upward by invisible strings of sorcery and blood.
The first to rise was a gaunt man with wild, fever-bright eyes and matted hair. His face was contorted in confusion and mounting wrath. Once he had been a warlord draped in the tatters of battle; now, reborn in undeath, he threw his head back and roared – a raw, primal sound of hunger that shook dust from the rafters. Blood – Vexyne’s blood – streaked his chin as he bared newfangled fangs to the cold air. Vexyne felt a jolt of terror… and pity. She could almost see the frayed remnants of the mortal he had been, now drowning beneath the monster he had become.Beside him, a tall woman rose with eerie grace, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She awoke slowly, deliberately, as though embracing a long-anticipated destiny. Her eyes, glinting like cut obsidian, surveyed the chamber with cold calculation. In life she might have been a noble schemer or courtesan queen; in undeath she already wielded an uncanny poise. With a delicate motion, she ran her tongue over bloodied lips and smiled – a smile of cruel delight that did not reach her pitiless eyes.
The third figure convulsed awake – a shorter, powerfully built man whose skin was marred by scars even death had not erased. A low, feral snarl rattled in his throat. There was something beast-like in his movement: he rolled off the slab and crouched on all fours, ribs heaving, before lurching upright. His eyes darted wildly, red and ravenous. It was as if the beast within him was straining to burst free of the last tattered shreds of humanity.Last to stir was a slender youth, barely more than a boy. He sat up with a gasp that hitched into a sob. Hollow-cheeked and ashen, he pressed trembling hands to his chest as if searching for a heartbeat that would never return. A single tear of thin blood traced down his cheek when he realized it was gone. He looked around in silent, wounded confusion, the terrible hunger already kindling in his sunken eyes even as despair clouded them.Thus the five Firsts drew their first breaths together in that sanctum of nightmares: Vexyne and these four others, all bound by the witches’ dark design. The hooded coven looked on in triumph at their handiwork, five newborn progenitors of a new blight upon the world. Vexyne felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the others rising by the theft of her life. They were like her shadow-children, fashioned from her very blood without her consent. As the witches exulted, Vexyne understood with a chill that whatever humanity had flickered within her was now poised on a knife’s edge. One more push into darkness and it would gutter out.One witch stepped forward, evidently the leader by her bearing, and raised a hand for silence. The chamber fell still, save for the ragged growls of the scarred man and the crackle of torches. “Children of night,” the witch intoned, her voice smooth and cold, “welcome. You have drunk from the font of the First Blood. Our covenant is sealed.” Her eyes flickered to Vexyne – the so-called First Blood – and in that gaze was a greedy pride. Vexyne met it with a glare of loathing and grief, but chains and spells held her powerless.The gaunt warlord was the first of the newborns to find his voice. He fixed the witch with a defiant glare. “What have you done to me?” he rasped, testing the unfamiliar shape of the words as if his throat burned. His hands flexed, and the leather of his half-ruined gloves creaked under the pressure of newfound strength. “I remember… I was cut down on the battlefield—” Confusion and fury warred in his expression.“Indeed,” purred the witch, lips curving. “You were dying, Varak.” At that name, the man started as though struck; perhaps echoes of his mortal life rushed back at its sound. The witch continued, “We have given you another life – an immortal life. The price is simple: fealty to the night, and to us, who gifted you this power.”
Varak – for that was the warlord’s name – squared his shoulders. Pride and hunger glittered dangerously in his eyes. “I bow to no one,” he growled. Yet even as he spoke, a spasm of thirst rippled through him, twisting his features. His defiance faltered; Vexyne could see how his gaze drifted involuntarily to the far corner where a terrified human thrall – a prisoner the witches had prepared – huddled in chains. Hot blood, alive and tantalizing, perfumed the air from that direction. All of them could smell it. Varak’s throat worked convulsively and he bristled, torn between his towering pride and the all-consuming need gnawing at his core.The dark-haired woman stepped forward next, with a composure at odds with the feral tension crackling around Varak. She drew herself up regally, as if this were a courtly audience and not a dank pit of horrors. “And I,” she said coolly, her voice resonant and low, “I remember a dagger in my heart. I remember… dying.” A slight tremor in that last word betrayed some lingering mortal dread, but she mastered it at once. Inclining her head to the witch, she continued, “If this gift is real, I accept it. Tell me, whom must I thank for such a boon?” The faintest sly smile played on her lips, as though she intended to charm even her creators.The lead witch’s laugh was soft, almost fond. “Pragmatic, are we? You always were.” She inclined her head in return. “You may call me Cyralith. And you, Lenora, shall be the Queen of the Dawnless Empire that is to come.” At the name Lenora, the vampire woman’s dark eyes flashed. Hearing her own name seemed to cement her identity in undeath; she smiled more fully. The title of queen clearly pleased her, but the calculating glint in her eyes suggested she had already considered crowning herself long before Cyralith ever spoke.While these words were exchanged, the scarred man—the one who had awoken with a beast’s snarl—could restrain himself no longer. Overcome by the savage hunger twisting his insides, he sprang toward the corner where the human thrall cowered. With a guttural roar, he seized the unfortunate soul. There was a blur of motion and a wet crunch as fang met flesh. The thrall’s scream died in a gurgle. The man—more beast than man now—drank messily, noisily, blood streaming down his chin and soaking his tattered clothes. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy as he fed without restraint. The witches watched him with a mix of amusement and clinical interest; clearly, this was an outcome they expected.
Vexyne forced herself to turn away, squeezing her eyes shut against the sight of the slaughter. Revulsion warred with a darker impulse rising within her: the scent of fresh, hot blood was everywhere now, igniting an unbearable thirst in her own veins. Her gums ached as fangs she never wanted threatened to extend. She fought it with every ounce of will, clenching her jaw until it hurt. A sob of mingled hunger and disgust welled in her throat. Tears – hot and crimson – gathered in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall where the witches could see. She would not revel in this nightmare as they did.
The slender youth had not moved from his slab. He watched the carnage with horror, limbs shaking so badly that the witch beside him laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him. She addressed him in a gentle, coaxing tone utterly at odds with the cruelty in the room: “Do not be afraid, Dain. The hunger will guide you. Embrace it, child.” At her words, the boy – Dain – tore his gaze from the gory spectacle and looked at her. His lips were pressed in a bloodless line, and he managed to whisper, “I… I never wanted…” But his protest was cut off as the witch raised a slender finger, smeared with a single drop of Vexyne’s blood, and pressed it against his trembling lips.
Instinct overpowered despair. Dain’s eyes fluttered shut as he tasted that crimson drop. A shiver wracked his slight frame, and a faint groan escaped him. When his eyes opened again, they glowed with a dull, terrible red. Vexyne realized with grief that something in the gentle boy had been irreversibly turned: the despair on his face was hardening into a cold, abiding emptiness, lit from behind by the vampiric hunger that would never leave him now.With the four new vampires awakened and sated (in fashion, if not fully satisfied), the witches moved to herd their brood like dark shepherds corralling wolves. A pair of them came to Vexyne, finally unfastening her shackles from the altar. Her limbs were so weakened from blood-loss and shock that she collapsed to her knees on the blood-slick stones. One of the witches snarled and yanked her upright by the hair. “On your feet, mother of monsters,” the witch hissed in her ear, a tone of mocking endearment. Vexyne stumbled and nearly fell; only the witch’s grip kept her standing. Rage and sorrow warred in Vexyne’s heart as she looked upon the scene through a haze of pain. This coven addressed her as “mother,” but they regarded her with utter contempt – a broodmare to be discarded now that her offspring stood on their own.Varak, his hunger temporarily sated by the witches’ offerings, cast a dismissive glance at Vexyne as she was hauled to her feet. In that one cold look, she saw that he considered her irrelevant now. He had his power; she was but a spent vessel in his eyes. Lenora offered Vexyne a thin, indecipherable smile. Was it sympathetic? Triumphant? Pitying? Vexyne couldn’t tell – and Lenora turned away before any silent message could be discerned. Garruk (for the witches had addressed the scarred, feral man by that name amid their coaxing) was still hunched over the drained thrall’s corpse, licking the last streaks of blood from his fingers, too lost in animal satisfaction to notice anything else. Dain stood a little apart from the rest, the red glow in his eyes dimming back to a haunted flicker. He looked at Vexyne only for an instant – and in that brief moment, his face twisted with shared sorrow and fear – before he dropped his gaze to the ground.A raw whisper escaped Vexyne’s throat: “Why?” The question was so ragged and broken it was scarcely audible, but somehow in the silence after the feeding it carried. She lifted her face toward the witches, tears of blood now freely spilling down her cheeks. “Why have you done this?” she choked out. Beneath the anguish, there was a tremor of fury building in her voice.
Cyralith, the lead witch, stepped forward until she loomed over Vexyne’s swaying, shackled form. “Why?” she echoed, as though tasting the word. The witch’s face was half in shadow, half illuminated by the sickly light of the torches. Up close, Vexyne could see that Cyralith’s eyes were not truly human – pupils slit like a cat’s, irises a sickly yellow. Those eyes narrowed. “Because, child, the world wronged us. Because power was stolen from us by those who dwell in the light.” Her tone was almost tender, a mother explaining hard truths to a beloved daughter, though the malice underneath made it a grotesque parody. “We have suffered under the yoke of kings and priests for too long. Now, power is ours to take. And you—” she placed a cold fingertip under Vexyne’s chin, lifting it slightly, “you should rejoice. Your blood will course through generations. You will be the unwritten genesis of a new dominion of night.” A smile ghosted over Cyralith’s lips. “Is that not magnificent? To be the hidden queen of an endless dark empire?”
Vexyne recoiled from the witch’s touch, disgust mingling with the hot tear-tracks on her face. “I never wanted this!” she spat, voice trembling with fury. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. You’ve made me into a monster—” Her words caught as a sob threatened to break them.
Cyralith’s false tenderness snapped. Her grip on Vexyne’s chin tightened cruelly. “We made you into a goddess, you ungrateful wretch,” the witch hissed, and for a heartbeat her beautiful veneer slipped to reveal the wicked crone beneath. “However unwilling you were, you will serve the purpose we chose for you. Do not forget: without us, you are nothing but a dead village girl.” She released Vexyne with a small shove, then smoothed her robes, regaining her composed façade. “Now, compose yourself. We have much to do. The night is young, and the world will soon learn to fear you all.”As Cyralith turned away, Vexyne’s hands curled into fists. Her whole body was shaking, not only with rage but with the effort of resisting the dark thirst and fury that threatened to consume her sanity. It took all her focus to cling to the shards of herself that remained. While the witches busied themselves directing Varak and the others, Vexyne’s eyes drifted around the chamber. For the first time, she noticed strange symbols drawn in blood on the floor and walls – intricate patterns interlaced with chains of ancient sigils. A dull throb emanated from them, resonating unpleasantly inside her skull. Those symbols formed a great unseen web across the chamber, one she now realized was meant to ensnare creatures like her. Every time she’d tried to summon strength beyond a mortal’s during her captivity, something had stifled it; now she understood why. The witches had planned every inch of this atrocity, down to magical shackles on her powers.So began the first bleak nights of Vexyne’s unholy life. The witches kept their fledglings close, hidden away in that crumbling fortress deep in the moors where sunlight never pierced the perpetual mist. Vexyne and the other four were like infant predators, corralled and prodded by their creators to test the limits of their new natures. In the cobbled courtyard, beneath a moon that seemed forever cloud-shrouded, the witches taught them through cruelty. They would bring prisoners – sometimes condemned criminals snatched from gibbets, other times hapless travelers or lost children spirited away – and release them at dusk. Then the newborn vampires were ordered to hunt. It was carnage as lesson: a grotesque game in which only obedience to bloodthirst earned approval.In those nights, Vexyne resisted with every fiber of her being. Whenever a living victim was cast before them like a sacrificial lamb, she would retreat to the edges of the courtyard, pressing herself against the cold stone walls, determined not to partake. Varak, by contrast, relished these exercises. He hunted the prisoners as if on a battlefield, toying with them, allowing flickers of hope before striking them down. He was honing his predatory instincts, preparing for wars only he could see. Garruk was pure frenzy – he would leap upon the first unfortunate soul in

Story will continue with more adventures of our lovely Vampire ~ ♥

RP Hooks

❝I do not want your love. I want your silence when I leave.❞

—    Rules of Play.   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- ERP must be talked about prior. My character is not meant for this kind of RP and will be treated with respect.
-Must have a thought out character (ex: detailed background, personality, and are willing to strive for character development)

—    Disclaimer   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- I reserve the right to say NO to writing with anyone.
- Do not expect to become my "Ship."
- I am not looking for romantic interests. If this does form over writing, then me and the person writing will talk about it.
- I will not do ERP with people I am not comfortable with. I am not a one night stand or a sex machine. I will avoid this at all cost.
- God mode - I will avoid anyone with a god complex that think their character is the most powerful being on the planet.
- Anyone that tries to control my character through writing I will be avoiding.

Relationships.

❝She is what the old prayers were trying to warn us about.❞

Gallery.

❝Don’t follow her. Not even in dreams. Especially not there.❞

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Vexyne  

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork