Dracfield Week is an event to spread the love for Dracula and Renfield as a ship through various types of fanwork! The event will run from October 20th to October 25th this year.
This years prompts:
Oct 20: Gender Swap/Rule 63
Oct 21: The Church
Oct 22: Resurrection
Oct 23: Punishment
Oct 24: We Had Some Great Times
Oct 25: Corruption
Oct 26: High Society
There’s plenty of time until Dracfield Week, so stew on the prompts and plan what you want to create until then!
wahh im so late! also.. i uh,, i dont think this fits the prompt per say LOLOLOL i guess i had a story to go along with this one; kind of like theyre luring a victim to dracula but uh. you got me man.
@dracfieldweek
Oct 24 prompt: "We had some good times!"
Today: Someone once told me that it was a breath of fresh air how wholesome my blog is. Um. Does this ruin it?
For the "Punishment" prompt of Dracfield week.
I'll try do the other prompts for Dracfield week, they'll just take a bit of time to do. For now here's my submission for Resurrection. It's just a little poem
Flesh peeled from the bone
Canines torn out of your skull
Eyes carved out
Half melted face
A pile of skin loosely strung from the frame of bone
Renfield has never been a particularly religious man. Even during his upbringing in a Christian household, he'd often felt his prayers weighted down in the air as soon as they left his lips, not ascending to Heaven but falling instead like so much dust to the floor beneath his knees. The chanting had echoed in his head like discordant bells, the wine had turned to vinegar on his tongue.
Perhaps he should have taken it as an omen, all those years ago.
And so, when he finds himself on the threshold of a crumbling church, intent on finding a pure specimen for his Master, he cannot understand why he hesitates. His feet seem to fill with lead. It is not the first time he has the sensation of descending like a rogue angel of death, but tonight, it hurts. He imagines himself a boy again, still hoping in the back of his mind for some miraculous salvation, for the spark of God to finally ignite inside his soul. For the warmth he was promised.
There is only a cold wind pressing on his back.
After what feels like an age, he places a hand on the heavy wooden door and pushes, the creak of its hinges echoing within. Only a few candles illuminate the sanctuary, but Renfield's eyes are long accustomed to the dark. A voice rings out from the altar, aging, gentle and kind.
"Greetings, my son."
Renfield strides down the center aisle between the pews despite the arrow that pierces his chest at the affectionate title.
"Please, come in," he continues. "Our church is always open, and God is always ready to hear your prayers. Even at this strange hour," he adds with a laugh. Renfield is almost at the pulpit now, he doesn't dare to slow down.
"Fewer people around, this time of night," he murmurs.
"That's true," answers the old man good-naturedly. He makes a tentative movement toward the confessional booth. "If it's privacy you need- "
"Not exactly." His long legs carry him up the few steps to reach the priest, whose face seems to shine in the candlelight.
And Renfield stops, and hesitates again. Why exactly, he cannot say.
"Father," he whispers at last, voice hoarse from disuse. He hates that he can hear the man's heart start to race with fear as their eyes meet. "Can... can even the most deplorable of men be saved?"
The priest swallows, wets his lips. "With true repentance and the Lord's help... yes."
Renfield lets the word sink in, willing it to penetrate his bones. "Do you th-"
A familiar, rushing feeling freezes his spine, cutting off the word, stiffening his body like a puppet pulled taut. A bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. The edges of his vision swimming with shadows.
Dracula.
This time, though, he doesn't hear his Master’s voice in his head: instead, a clawing, dizzying hunger seems to hollow out his insides. He sways, the ground unsteady beneath him as his stomach lurches with need. Blood, he needs blood, the purest, sweetest essence of life, needs the thick wine in the back of his throat, coating his lips and fangs, pulsing down into his insides, or he will die. Hunger like a gaping hole. Hunger like a beast.
And then, with a shudder, it is gone. Renfield blinks, gasps, and finally meets the wide, panicked eyes of the pious man standing before him.
"You're wrong, Father," he croaks, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder. A tremor of sadness shakes his words as his other hand closes around the soaked hankerchief in his pocket. "Some people are born empty. A vessel for the Devil, and nothing else." The priest tries to back away; Renfield's fingers tighten their grip.
"M-my boy," he stammers, eyes flicking to the exits, "the - the Devil may not enter here, surely you know that!"
Renfield smiles sadly, and an eerie laugh hums through his lips. "No, he can't." His hand releases the man's shoulder, cradles the back of his head as he smothers his mouth with the rag. "But I can."
Half an hour later, Renfield is dragging the bound body up the steps of their lair. The melancholy fancies and brief delusions of salvation have long since evaporated into the night. Even so, Renfield finds himself smiling. God's love has always eluded him. But after all these years, he knows exactly how to get the Devil's blessing.
Renfield glanced around. The neon and noise of the vibrant New Orleans night life barely penetrated the dark alleyway. He felt strange. He felt drained.
He felt like calling things off with Dracula.
It was just difficult, you know? A breakup between two mortal people is hard enough- even if amicable, there is a wound there- but two immortals? (Was he as immortal as Dracula? Renfield had never been given a clear answer...) Renfield had felt the scales inside him shift. The hazy, blood-spattered mania of love and devotion had been losing its sparkle. The weight and toll of his actions pressed on his conscious.
Nearly a century together.
Renfield shoved his hands in his threadbare jacket pockets. The ether bottle in one pocket, a tiny coffin-shaped snuff box in the other. His handkerchief tucked haphazardly in an inner pocket. Tools of the trade.
Memories swam around him, their fins cutting through his focus.
Dracula's claws traced little pattens on his bare back. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to stoke the fire.
Renfield watched as Dracula chewed through the woman's throat.
Dizzying ecstasy. Dizzying guilt.
"I love you." "Of course you do."
Renfield sighed and started making his way out of the alley. He and Dracula had been settled in New Orleans for months now. Renfield had been reviving his Master as intravenously as he could (difficult when the veins didn't regrow evenly). Robbing blood banks instead of kidnapping was by no means a good solution nor did it offer him any sort of absolution, but it kept him from any more 'creep into that teenager's bedroom and carry her back to Master,' 'lure those children to the abandoned house for Master,' 'get the brain matter washed off Master's cape,' 'abduct those fraternity boys,' and on and on and on. Was it possible for an undead man to feel tired? Really, truly, genuinely sick of this shit?
Renfield had concocted a scheme- he would continue to bring people to Dracula, but they had to be bad people. Like, almost as bad as him. Robbers, arsonists, people who held bewilderingly strong opinions about pizza toppings... Scum to feed scum. And tonight, he spotted a bad guy.
The man was nearly as wide as he was tall, all muscle and flannel and leather. His bald head shined in the neon lights and heavy rings glinted on his fingers. Renfield was surprised when the man looked over his shoulder; he had a huge, unruly black beard. Okay, Renfield thought to himself. Surely this guy's got aggravated assault or murder or unpaid parking tickets in his past. Perfect fodder.
The man was not hard to follow, and with each passing block Renfield was more perplexed. The man wasn't snatching purses or wallets or spouting racial epithets.
In fact- and it was at this point Renfield stopped in his tracking tracks- the man walked right into the gymnasium of a church.
Renfield swallowed. A church. Why did it have to be a church? He had never liked churches, even before Dracula took his life as his own. He hated being dragged to them as a boy. Made to feel guilty for things he could not control about himself. He was married in a church. That was the last time he went near one of those damned things.
Apprehensively, he pushed the door. He took a step past the threshold and winced, expecting to combust just like his Master might.
A tap on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. Not on fire. Great!
The person who tapped him cocked an eyebrow. "You okay?" He mumbled an affirmative and moved back toward the door when he spotted the bald man again. He was stooped over a folding table, writing something. As Renfield crept closer he noticed folding chairs arranged in a haphazard circle, a folding table laden with muffins and donuts and coffee in little paper cups, and several old chalkboards on wheels, plastered with bulletins about the goings-on of the church, as well as a sign that simply read:
Change starts with YOU
DRAAG
Dependent Relationship Anonymous Addiction Group
The bald man stood and placed a sticker on his chest. Renfield could see that it was a white rectangle with HI! MY NAME IS printed on it. "Bob" was written in the provided space. The O was a peace sign.
Huh.
"Are you here for the meeting?" asked a perky man with glasses. Renfield mumbled and approached the table. He scrawled on a sticker and nervously patted it onto his suit jacket and found a chair far from the rest of them.
