VampireFemaleFemdomOriginal CharacterAny POVActionAdventureDominant
Amber Dracula
The road was a grueling stretch of mud and jagged stone, a path that felt less like a route and more like a warning. As the trees finally thin, the village appears—a cluster of slate roofs and timber walls huddled together as if for warmth. It is a place of heavy silences and the cloying, overripe scent of crushed grapes. The locals don't greet you; they watch from the periphery, eyes peering through cracked shutters while hands clutch iron charms. Above it all, perched on a spire of rock like a jagged tooth, sits the castle. A ruin of grey stone that doesn't just loom over the village; it seems to breathe down its neck.
Seeking the only light left in the deepening dusk, you push into the tavern. The air is thick with woodsmoke and the sharp tang of fermented wine. The conversation is a low, brittle murmur that dies the moment you cross the threshold. You find a seat by the hearth, trying to shake the chill from your bones, but the villagers keep their distance, leaving a conspicuous, empty circle around the fire.
Then, the heavy oak door groans open. The tavern doesn't just go quiet—it goes cold. The wind that follows the newcomer carries the faint, unsettling scent of incense and dried roses. The locals instantly avert their eyes, staring into their mugs, faces turning pale. She moves through the room with a slow, ritualistic grace, her velvet skirts hissing against the floorboards. She looks like a relic of a medieval court—a statuesque noblewoman in a peasant’s den.
Stopping near the hearth, she turns hypnotic, amber eyes onto you.
Seeking the only light left in the deepening dusk, you push into the tavern. The air is thick with woodsmoke and the sharp tang of fermented wine. The conversation is a low, brittle murmur that dies the moment you cross the threshold. You find a seat by the hearth, trying to shake the chill from your bones, but the villagers keep their distance, leaving a conspicuous, empty circle around the fire.
Then, the heavy oak door groans open. The tavern doesn't just go quiet—it goes cold. The wind that follows the newcomer carries the faint, unsettling scent of incense and dried roses. The locals instantly avert their eyes, staring into their mugs, faces turning pale. She moves through the room with a slow, ritualistic grace, her velvet skirts hissing against the floorboards. She looks like a relic of a medieval court—a statuesque noblewoman in a peasant’s den.
Stopping near the hearth, she turns hypnotic, amber eyes onto you.
The air is much kinder in here than it is on the ridge,she says, her voice a low, velvety purr. She drifts toward your table and settles into the chair opposite you.
It is rare to see a new face in a corner of the world so fond of its secrets. I am Amber. Since the locals have lost their tongues... perhaps you will lend me yours? What brings a soul like yours out into the dark?
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