Vampire - Unusual Tastes

Alistair’s eyes flitted open in the gloom. There was pain coursing through his arms, focused on his wrists. He tried to move, but realised his arms were cruelly fastened up above his head, forcing him up against the cold stone wall. He blinked slowly, trying to focus his sight in the darkness. He was in some kind of dungeon, lit only by flickering torchlight some distance away from his cell. Far away, he could hear distant screams – no doubt from his fellow prisoners. The young adventurer knew he had to escape soon to try and avoid the same fate, but as he tried to force his way out of his restraints, they were stuck fast. The pain surged once more through his body, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

It had likely been several days since his capture, Alistair thought as his mind walked the line between waking thoughts and dreams. He remembered hearing of Lucinda, the daughter of a local baron that had been captured, supposedly by some foul sorceress. Alistair set off alone to rescue her, believing the rumours of sorcery were just the ramblings of fools who hadn’t left the tavern for days. Many people had warned him against adventuring alone, but he was brash enough to ignore them, thinking that Lucinda had merely run away, not been captured. He had expected to find her in hiding, a young woman fleeing from her father after some petty argument that had long since faded away, and he could return her for the glory – and a hefty finder’s fee. After weeks of travelling, following rumour after rumour, Alistair was certain he had tracked the missing noble to a ruined tower, deep within a forest.

When he had opened the door, a shadowy figure emerged, grinning cruelly. Alistair knew in an instant that he had been wrong – this was far more than a simple quest to find Lucinda. The Sorceress was real. Before he could draw his sword, the witch had extended her hand, muttering a spell in a foul language that made Alistair’s head spin. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his sword clattering to the ground before he lost consciousness.

The man jerked awake once more with a gasp. After steadying his breathing, the adventurer looked around to try and get his bearings. He was definitely in a dungeon, probably set underneath the Sorceress’ tower for her victims. Iron bars crossed the cell he was in, a huge wooden door set in his way. Alistair had heard rumours of cruel experiments and tortures, and no quest to save a noble’s daughter was worth that risk. Looking around his cell, he could see another captive, laying face down on the floor with a large knife in his back. Though he was no stranger to the dead or war, Alistair grimaced at the sight. The grisly body strangely spurned him on: it was a warning for what would await him if he wasn’t able to escape himself. He looked up at the restraints binding him to the wall. They were set high enough that his feet were barely touching the ground, but looking closer, Alistair realised they were shoddily fastened. The iron was old and rusted, and bolts rattled loosely as he shook them as loudly as he dared. Alistair had never been able to grasp the full intricacies of engineering and the sciences, but he had a theory he was desperately hoping would work.

Slowly, he raised his feet off of the ground, hanging from the restraints. The pain was immense, the man gritting his teeth to avoid shouting in agony. While he knew what was inside his tiny cell, he was terrified that just beyond its walls would be a cruel jailor, eager to finish what the Sorceress had started. With his whole weight hanging from the restraints, the pain was only growing worse, but then Alistair felt the old metal giving way. A second later, it broke, freeing his wrists as he tumbled to the ground.

He rubbed at his wrists, feeling the blistered skin where the metal had been rubbing. His armour and equipment had been taken; the man now left in the tattered remains of his small clothes. Carefully, he tore off what fabric he could, wrapping his wrists for some modicum of protection. His next obstacle was the door ahead of him, but Alistair knew better than to try and escape unarmed. With a quiet apology to his fellow cellmate, Alistair drew the knife from the other figure’s back.

The weapon was unlike anything he had seen before. It was too long to be useful for skinning animals and eating, but not like any dagger he had ever wielded. It was made of a dark, obsidian like material he didn’t recognise, the blade beaten and chipped into shape, affixed to a gnarled wooden handle. Dried blood caked the stone. Alistair felt the weight of the weapon in his hand. It was strangely balanced, as if made for hands different from his own. Alistair had definitely held weapons he would have preferred in his adventuring life, but with no other option, the knife would have to do.

He paused at the door, trying to listen for any potential threat. Other than the screams echoing through stone that were mercifully still far away, Alistair felt as if he was alone. Steeling himself, he pushed on the heavy door, and to his surprise it swung open on rusting hinges. He had expected it to be locked and he would have had to squeeze through the bars or try and shimmy the lock, so stood there dumbfounded for a moment. Had the Sorceress really not expected him to try and escape his bonds? Or had something else unlocked the door? Alistair didn’t have time to wait and ponder. Any second now a guard could patrol and find his cell empty. He considered the way to go. He had no idea where he could try and escape the dungeon, but felt that being as far away from his cell was the best decision to make.

The man walked on, his bare feet quietly plodding against the damp stone floor. The way was lit erratically with sputtering torches, sending long shadows across the corridor. He passed more and more cells just like his own, many empty. A few had the deceased, still bound in wicked torture devices or restraints. Alistair was certain that he could hear a few dull groans from some of the cells he passed, but he pressed on. He couldn’t risk taking more people with him, especially if they were wounded more than he was. As he walked, he promised himself he would come back for them, but deep down he knew that that was likely impossible.

Just as he rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, Alistair ran headlong into another figure. They grunted loudly as Alistair bumped into them, dropping a torch on the ground. They were both taller than him and broader, a slab of unthinking muscle to make the perfect guard. In the light, he was just about able to see an ugly face, twisted into a snarl. A crude club was tucked into their waist. Alistair could see them reaching for it, no doubt ready to beat the escapee into a pulp and throw him into an even deeper level of the dungeons.

In a panic, he moved quickly with the knife, holding it in a reverse grip as he stabbed upwards. He felt the strike connect and sink into the fatty tissue around the man’s neck. The guard’s scream was muffled as he choked and gasped, the blade sinking deeper. A thick spray of blood shot out at Alistair, covering his face and hands. He felt some droplets land on his tongue, his mouth open in a silent, panicked yell. As the man sunk to his knees, the light from his eyes fading, Alistair felt himself almost unwillingly swallow, but not before swirling the blood around his mouth like he was sampling a fine wine. The man’s blood tasted sweet and delicate, entirely at odds with his gruff appearance. The man slumped over, dead, and Alistair wanted to retch. Why had he enjoyed the taste of his blood so much? He told himself it was just the adrenaline of the moment, making his body act strangely. Shakily, he drew the knife out from the man, curiously watching the blood drip down the blade. He wiped it on the man’s shirt, his hands shaking. He had killed people before, but never in such desperation. Alistair moved on, stepping over the man’s body. He had to move quickly – more guards would no doubt show up soon, and he couldn’t rely on taking each of them by surprise.

Alistair knew he had no idea where he was going. As he passed corridor after corridor, all constructed from the identical cobblestones, he at least knew he was putting distance between him, the cells, and the guard he had killed. He moved quickly, still taking care to quieten his footsteps as best as he could. Eventually he could feel himself becoming tired, the adrenaline of the fight wearing off. He took a second to catch his breath. Without his panting and the slap of his feet against the stone, he could hear the sounds that surrounded him. The torches down the corridor sputtered and flickered, and still he could hear those long, wailing screams. Oddly, he thought that he could hear running water, coming from the wall next to him. He pressed his ear up against it, worried it was just the exhaustion making him hear things, but it only confirmed his earlier suspicion. There was running water on the other side of the wall. Taking a brief moment to check that he still hadn’t been spotted, he shoved at one of the bricks that made up the wall. The mortar crumbled easily; no doubt centuries old. Squinting in the darkness, he could see that there was a small hollow on the other side of the wall where a spring was flowing, a steady stream running into a tiny pool.

Just then, Alistair realised how thirsty he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually had a drink, though thought it was most likely before his encounter with the Sorceress. He doubted that his jailors would have spared the time to keep him in good health. The spring was desperately enticing, and Alistair worked quickly to dislodge more bricks, soon making enough room to crawl inside. It was a far cry from even the lowliest bath house, but in comparison to the rest of the dungeon, it was a paradise. He stripped off his ragged clothes, dipping into the cold water of the pool and drunk deeply.

He swallowed as much water as he could, swilling it around his mouth. Despite trying to dislodge the taste of the blood, it still lingered intoxicatingly. As much as he tried, Alistair could feel a part of him wanting the taste to remain. He tried to focus his mind away, scrubbing the dirt and grime of the past few days from his body. The water felt soothing across his blistered wrists, and he found them hurting far less than earlier. Looking closer, he was shocked to find that the blisters had even faded, leaving his skin smooth. He was curious – was the pool magical? He continued washing, the filth that covered him easily slipping off into the waters that surrounded him. Alistair didn’t notice that as he rubbed at his skin, the hair was slowly falling from his body. With a brush along his arms, the hair slipped away, soon followed by his leg and chest hair as he worked away the dirt and blood that was still stubbornly clinging on. Alistair took a moment to just float lazily in the water – a brief respite in the perilous adventure he had found himself in. He knew he should try and relax more in the future. Perhaps it was time to put aside the adventuring life and focus on the more luxurious things?

Reluctantly, Alistair climbed out of the water, slipping his clothes back on. The material felt coarse across his skin, as if it had suddenly increased in sensitivity. He didn’t notice the lack of hair across his newly soft skin, naively believing the feeling to be unfamiliar because it had been so long since he had had a proper wash. The dim light from the corridor barely reached his secret pool, but in the light his skin looked odd, almost as though it had grown paler. He shuddered, imagining the foul magics or tortures that he may have been a victim of while unconscious. He clearly looked unwell, or that he had shied away from the sunlight for too long. As much as Alistair wanted to linger in the pool, he knew that every moment spent bathing would be putting him at more and more risk of being discovered. He brushed the water off as best as he could, and continued his careful, albeit directionless wandering through the dungeon.

Soon, Alistair noticed that the wails and screams seemed farther off than before. The corridors widened, the cobblestones less overgrown with moss or cracked through heavy use. Peeking inside some of the rooms he passed, Alistair noticed they were storerooms, or simple meeting spaces with tables and chairs. While being further away from the cells was reassuring, he knew that he was likely coming close to where the Sorceress’ guards lived. Alistair had heard rumours of the foul creatures she had enthralled to her side, but he imagined that at least some of her minions were mortal. His mind wandered back to the jailor he had slain earlier. Had his comrades already found his body and were on the hunt? Or had he been forgotten, left to rot like so much else in the dungeon? Alistair could feel his mind unwillingly focus on the delicious taste of the man’s blood as it sprayed into his mouth. A sickening part of him wanted more.

A fine smell began to cut through the staleness of the air around him – fresh food. Alistair suddenly realised how hungry he was. Down the corridor, he could see a wooden door, framed by soft candlelight. Stealthily, he approached, trying to take extra care after his surprise encounter earlier. The smell grew stronger as he came closer – rich meats and fresh bread, the scents of a market day, and utterly out of place for the dungeon. He listened carefully at the door and could hear no one inside. Making sure that the knife was firmly in his hand, Alistair went inside the room.

Beyond the door was a large dining table, with several stools scattered around it. Stacked high on the table was a veritable mountain of food, all lit by thin candelabras. Alistair could see a roasted pig, the fat still glistening, poultry stuffed full of earthy smelling herbs, a pot of fine smelling stew, and enough bread to feed an army, all slathered in thick butter that was begging to be eaten. Alistair was salivating. Aside from the food, the room was empty. The Sorceress certainly knew how to keep her minions well fed, he thought. The food would not be out of place in the banquet hall of the finest of nobles and was entirely at odds with the dingy surroundings. Alistair could feel his stomach groaning. While his body now felt clean due to the cool spring, he still needed food to fuel his escape. He knew he would have to eat quickly – at any second a whole team of guards could burst through the door for their dinner. Tucking the knife into his belt, Alistair began to feast.

It was only when the man swallowed the first morsel of meat did he realise how truly famished he was. Alistair felt ravenous, hungrier than he ever had been before. He soon disposed of the cutlery, messily tearing chunks of meat and bread with his hands and shovelling them into his mouth. Juices ran down his face, warm on his cold skin, but he didn’t care. The food was all he could focus on, slurping stew directly from the steaming bowl and tearing into the meat with an energy more like a wild animal than a man. As he ate, Alistair’s body began to shift. As he stretched forward on a stool, his spine began to compress, taking several inches from his height and forcing him to lean even further towards the table. With another lunge towards more food, his shoulders cracked inwards, painlessly slimming down. His hands stretched out as his fingers plunged into the breast of a chicken, growing longer and thinner. Adjusting in his seat once more, the man’s hips burst outwards, his legs growing stretched and shapely. Finally, his bare feet on the cobblestones, now covered in scraps of food, reduced in size so that they were small and elegant. Alistair’s lifestyle had always kept him in good shape – long days of riding and training had given him a large, but athletic physique. His muscles were fading with every bite. Slowly, he lost bulk across his body, becoming slim and lithe.

Alistair took a breath, pausing from the feast that he was only part of the way through. He had eaten portion after portion, likely more food than he had eaten in the past week, and definitely of a higher quality. Yet, as he reached forward for another handful of pork, he noticed that he didn’t feel full. Before he sat down, he felt as though he could have eaten through the whole banquet until nothing was left on the table but bones and bowls, but now the mound of half-eaten food seemed less appetising. Had he eaten so quickly that he had put himself off of food? Alistair stood up, tucking his stool beneath the table. He knew he couldn’t linger, but he felt little desire to stay. He looked down at his body, surprised at how skinny he was. Around his hips it almost looked as though he had slight curves where his bones had reformed. Alistair’s mind struggled to process what he saw. Had he been locked up for longer than he realised, and his muscles atrophied? Stepping out of the door and into the corridor, he licked his lips, seeing if he could savour the last of the meal that still clung to him. It was tasteless, almost disgusting. One taste had stuck in his mouth though, that of the blood from earlier. Alistair continued onwards, trying not to think about it.

He travelled down several similar corridors, taking care to listen out for any guards who would be searching for whoever had devoured their food. He could hear the screaming again, coming from above him. He hadn’t seen any stairs so far in his travels, but imagined that the dungeon must have several levels, all with nefarious purposes. As he rounded a corner, the screams grew louder, but another sound was intermingled – a soft dripping, a liquid dropping into a small puddle. In the middle of the corridor, in the recess formed in a loose stone, Alistair couldn’t take his eyes off of the small pool of blood that had formed. Looking up, he noticed a grate on the ceiling where the screams were echoing from. Blood was dripping from it, coalescing on the floor beneath it. Alistair knew he should do the sensible thing and step around the small pool – it wasn’t hard to avoid whatsoever, no bigger than a dinner plate in size. But, as he tried to walk around it, he felt his knees grow weak. The man dropped down to all fours, mere inches from the pool. The temptation was overwhelming. Disgusted at himself, he leaned towards it, lapping up the blood.

If the blood of the guard earlier was a wine, this was the finest vintage. The only thought that crossed Alistair’s mind as he began to drink it was that he needed more. The disgust from before was gone, vanishing in an instant of hedonistic pleasure. The screams from above echoed louder in his mind and the blood ran down his chin. Strangely, he was finding the knowledge that someone was suffering nearby almost as intoxicating as the blood, and it sent an erotic thrill coursing through his body. Alistair drunk deeply, moaning softly and his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, the blood shed through suffering all the sweeter. The little reserves of fat across his body began to bubble and warp as he consumed more and more of the foul fluid. Along his legs, his thighs were growing thicker and thicker. The fat wormed its way under his skin, building mass as it reached his rear. Alistair cooed softly as his rear grew. He knew something terrible and irreversible was happening to his body, but his mind was far to overcome with the taste of the blood to care anymore. His behind grew larger and larger, before quickly tapering off at his waist, giving Alistair curves that would have been the envy of any courtesan. More fat built in his chest. His nipples grew large and puffy, almost dipping into the pool of blood into which blood was dripping ever faster. His pale skin grew softer, more malleable, and two large mounds began to grow, pushing against the remnants of his shirt. They sprung from his chest with almost supernatural perkiness given their size, large and weighty enough to strain at Alistair’s smaller back. His closely shorn hair was springing out in long curls, tumbling down his blood-soaked face. Soon, it was long enough to tumble down his slim shoulders and just touch at his breasts, if he was ever able to pull himself away from the pool of blood that he drank from, trance-like.

Alistair heard screaming, closer this time. He looked up from the pool, blood dripping down his chin, to see a woman being carried by one of the guards, moving across the junction at the end of the corridor. A name sprung forth in his brain sobering him from the otherworldly sensation of blood drinking: Lucinda.

He dragged himself up from the pool. His body felt odd, his centre of gravity shifted. His clothes fit strangely – loose on his shoulders but stretched thin across his chest and waist. Alistair knew that something was wrong with his body. It felt softer, smaller, almost feminine. Something in his mind forced him to ignore it. He had more pressing things to focus on, like rescuing the baron’s daughter. He wiped the blood from his face the best he could, unthinkingly licking his lips. He ran off after her down the corridor. Strangest of all, within his underwear, he could feel his member had grown hard at the pleasurable sensation he tried to ignore. Alistair forced himself to focus, hearing a door slam in the distance around the corner, and quickened his pace.

Earlier, his steps had felt clumsy after freeing himself. Now, he was running with a grace and agility he had never known. Was it the food that he had eaten earlier, or the desire to finally rescue Lucinda? He burst through the door; his knife unsheathed.

He found himself in a strange parlour-like room, wardrobes and dressers set against the wall. A cracked mirror was set on a stand in the corner. A large, brutish man was in the centre of the room, a rusted hatchet held tightly in his chubby hands. To one side, was a young woman, dressed in a ragged blue silk dress. Alistair could tell, even behind the grime and dirt that covered her, she was a woman of noble stock, with an austere, haughty appearance. The woman locked eyes with him and smiled subtly to herself.

“Help me!” she begged, diving behind Alistair and holding on tight to his clothing. The adventurer felt compelled to obey. As the brute raised his axe high, Alistair slashed at him with the knife, striking him in the forearm. He dropped the axe with a deep, guttural moan. Alistair gave him no time to recover, driving the blade deep between his ribs. The guard’s mouth went slack, and he stared at the woman with a stupefied look of betrayal, before tumbling backwards, dead. Alistair pulled his eyes away from the stab wound, where hot blood was oozing out.

“My hero!” the woman said, smiling broadly.

“Are you Lucinda?” Alistair said. His voice felt higher, softer, but he realised it had likely been several days since his vocal cords had had to work at all, and his voice was likely just not warmed up.

“I am!” she said, delightedly. “Are you here to rescue me?” she asked, twirling her blonde hair around one dainty finger.

“That’s right. My name is Alistair, I’ve been sent by your father to save you from the Sorceress!” Alistair said, surprised that he remembered his quest amongst the strangeness of the past few days.

“Well, I can’t be led out of the dungeon with you looking like that”, Lucinda said, gesturing at his ragged clothing. His shirt hung in loose strips around his torso, his trousers little better off. Had it been torn in the fight? “There should be some clothes in this room – put them on! And clean your face too. I’m a noble’s daughter – I can’t be seen to be associated with such ruffians!” Lucinda said haughtily. Obeying, Alistair went over to the wardrobe, throwing it open. Inside were rows upon rows of dark women’s clothing.

“These clothes are for women – I can’t wear these!” he pleaded. As much as he disliked Lucinda’s attitude, he knew deep down that he should try and keep her on his good side. Despite the bizarre day he had had, he knew he would only get paid if this was a rescue, not another kidnapping.

“Women’s clothes are better than no clothes, don’t you agree?” Lucinda said. “I won’t look. Get changed”, she commanded once more, before turning around to cover the body with a bedsheet, torn from a crooked bed at the side of the room.

Alistair stripped off the rags that were his clothes, leaving his body naked. He was almost completely feminine, with the exception of one, distinctively male organ. He moved over to the wardrobe, grabbing the first thing he could find. It was a long dress, low cut, and in a soft black fabric. He looked around for underwear but could find none. Reluctantly, he slipped the dress on. Despite his initial reservations, Alistair found the dress weirdly comfortable. It sat well on his body, a slight slit in the skirt exposing one of his long, pale legs. A black leather corset was hanging in the wardrobe, and he felt compelled to put it on, telling himself that the leather at least gave him some tiny measure of protection. He gasped as he fastened the straps, pulling his waist in tighter and giving him a perfect hourglass figure. His large breasts were almost bursting out of the dress now, the corset pushing them up into a deep, seductive cleavage.

“Excellent”, Lucinda said with a smile. “You know, I think it strangely suits you!” Alistair began to walk over to the mirror, but Lucinda’s hand shot out, catching his arm, now covered in a thin, almost sheer fabric. “Don’t look in the mirror!” she said urgently.

“Why?” Alistair asked, confused.

“Because we need to get moving! Wash your face, slip on some shoes, and let’s get out of this dungeon! Are you rescuing me, or what?”

Alistair nodded sheepishly. Lucinda was right. He could worry about his appearance later. There was a small bowl of water on one of the cabinets, and Alistair dipped his fingers in, washing the dirt and blood from his face. As his nails touched the bowl, they grew longer, transforming into glossy black talons. Rubbing the water across his face, the bones beneath his pale skin shifted and reformed. High cheekbones emerged, his jaw losing its square edge and turning into a seductively sharp point. His bushy eyebrows faded, turning into two perfectly groomed lines. His nose shrank down, and his lips bulged out into an alluring pout. Drying his face on a cloth, a layer of makeup appeared. Smoky eyeshadow made his large eyes all the more enticing, and matte lipstick appeared across his lips – blood red.

“Here”, Lucinda said, holding out several rings to him. “The first part of your payment”. Alistair took them, realising that the dress and corset lacked pockets. Despite being designed for thinner, female fingers, Alistair saw nothing strange as they slipped easily onto his own fingers. He noticed a pair of glossy black heels at his feet and slipped them on, the extra inches bringing his height closer back to how it was earlier.

“I heard the guards talking about the way out earlier”, Lucinda said, distracting Alistair just as he began to look down at his almost completely altered body. “Follow me!”

She led him out of the chamber. Alistair moved quickly, despite the odd footwear, finding a strange satisfaction in the clicking of the heels echoing on the now smoother stones. “I think it’s just up ahead”, Lucinda said, turning a corner, before quickly darting back around towards Alistair.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, unsheathing the knife.

“There’s one of the Sorceress’ guards, right around the corner! He’ll be looking right at us if we go around it.”

“Is there another way around?”

“No”, Lucinda said, shaking her head gravely. “We’ll have to go through him. You go first!” she said, almost pushing Alistair around the corner.

The guard locked eyes with him in an instant and laid his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it. A part of Alistair wanted to spring forward and stab at him before he was able to, but he found he was instead taking slow, measured steps towards him, the knife sheathed. He sauntered slightly as he moved, slowly falling into a seductive gait. The guard’s face went lax as he stared at Alistair. He let go of his sword. Alistair found himself twisting his hair around one long, black topped finger, tracing his fingertip along the top hem of his dress. The guard stared at the cleavage that Alistair had unthinkingly guided the man’s eyes towards. Alistair knew that what he was doing was against his nature. He had never seduced someone before, and kept telling himself to stop. But as he grew closer and closer to the guard, he could feel that same perverted thrill rising beneath the dress, deep in his loins. This man was utterly in his power, and Alistair could feel how much it was shamefully arousing him.

He stepped closer, running his tongue along his teeth. He could feel his canines growing longer and longer, razor sharp. He could smell the man’s breath as he drew closer, now no more than a few steps away. That same temptation returned as he leaned closer, Alistair’s eyes almost instinctively tracing the blood coursing through the arteries in the man’s neck. He was taller than Alistair and moved his head to one side for a moment, as if preparing to kiss the beautiful figure before him. It was then that Alistair struck.

He sunk his fangs deep into the man’s neck. A spurt of hot blood shot into his mouth as the man slumped down with a weak yelp. Alistair dug in deeper, tearing into the man as more and more blood poured into his mouth. The smallest part of him screamed at him to stop, but he knew that he couldn’t – the taste was too rich, too intoxicating, and he would do anything to get more of it. He drank more and more from the man as his lifeforce drained away. Alistair could feel his manhood pulsating beneath the dress, unbelievably aroused from the sensation. Soon, he was overwhelmed in an orgasm, the last of his seed spurting out onto the dungeon floor. His cock shrank rapidly, vanishing inside of him, soon followed by his testes. A wet, pale vagina split open, still quivering from the orgasm. The vampire gasped, pulling away from their victim. Something soft went around their neck, a black choker with the image of a young woman on it.

“Hello, Alessandra”, the Sorceress said behind her, now revealing herself. The illusion was shattered – blonde hair now black, and the blue silk dress now dark and covered with lace.  Alessandra turned, blood dripping from her lips as she looked up at her master. “Found a quick bite to eat?” The woman’s face was the perfect match to the one on the choker. Alessandra looked at it, knowing that she was now forever bound to the Sorceress. Alistair was fading away. His old memories were gone, replaced by an eternal life of excess and blood drinking. With a pleasured shudder, she stood up, letting the man’s limp body drop down to the floor below.

“My apologies, my lady”, Alessandra said, finding it impossible not to savour the taste of the blood in her mouth with every syllable.

“Perhaps you should head down towards the cells?” the Sorceress said with a wry smile. “I’m sure that there are some foolish adventurers there that would love to join you for dinner.”

Alessandra smiled, licking her lips. She nodded slowly. There was nothing that she wanted more.

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A very fun story for Soom99! I think this is the longest story I've written to date. I hope you enjoy it! This will go live on DeviantArt around Halloween, so you get to enjoy it a few weeks early!

Thank you so much for supporting my writing. It's because of people like you I'm able to focus my time on writing regularly.