“ ᶠʳᵒᶻᵉᶰ ʰᵉᵃʳᵗˢ ᶤᶰ ᵃ ˡᵒᵛᵉʳ'ˢ ᵍʳᵃᵛᵉˑ ”
PLACE: BARCELONA, SPAIN.
TIME PERIOD: 1742 A.D.
‹ ᵗʷ → ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ˒ ᵍᵒʳᵉˑ ›
She knew they’d all be boisterously indulging on the delectable feast ahead of them. For as the woman who owned the estate beckoned them in with her warm invitation, giving them free passage of her property, they would laugh. Laugh loudly, she noted, with their carefree tone and polished wardrobe that only the finest seamstress could tailor so fittingly to their bodies. It was a display of wealth wherever they traveled, a high born's signature collared coat and their beautiful woman strapped underneath their arm.
“Boy, polish that silverware and prepare to pour the wine,” an old, battered woman who was obviously hypnotized to serve under the vampires’ every waking demand, shouted to the ‘boy’ who was spotlessly finishing the last touches on the silverware. Silverware.. It was a fairly new concept in that day, particularly geared for more mannerly folk in the courts and nobles ranging far and wide. In attendance to this party were the most well-off guests in Spain, traveling bureaucrats who collected shares and financial endeavors wherever they went. Oh, and the servant who was recruited by the woman, knew perfectly well their luxurious, comfortable lifestyle.
“The men upstairs have requested more wine,” another servant girl announces for the teeming wait staff to hear, and a noticeable gash on her neck goes seemingly unnoticed as she scurries out of the room again.
“Boy, didn’t ya hear ‘er?” the eldest woman who spoke before, now impatiently badgers her sole recipitator of her demands. The boy who keeps his head down and eyes trained on his silverware, doesn’t voice a response and instead scurries to handle the wine pitcher before the lead staff member can torment him with her God-awful screech once more. Hasty steps lead him to the stairway, in which the men of the party would be participating in their usual agenda. Fang-deep in some poor lass in a frilly dress, discussing politics and their promiscuity in the court’s halls. The servant boy could recite word for word the jargon they’d be exchanging by the fireplace, barely getting a full few sentences in without stopping to drain their pretty blood supply.
The door pushes open and the servant goes quietly unnoticed, such as most of the human population occupying the room. Girls giggling their innocent giggles as the rough men enjoy their playful natured banter, before said bright girl’s timely demise. It’s a cycle, rooted in the system of the clan and how utterly hard it was for the boy to contain himself when breezing past the displays.
“Only the finest wine will pour tonight, gentlemen!” a loud voice bellowed in the room, signaling a stream of ‘hoor-ahs’, closely followed by their clinking of glasses. The servant boy, who served each man their share of wine, did so in a manner that worked like clockwork. They would not drink immediately when served; drinks would flow as soon as the leader of the lot would announce a toast, thus everyone would drink their cup simultaneously. With swift steps, going unnoticed in the room, fingers softly click the door’s locked and his back presses against the door.
Watchful, keen gaze locked on the men as the glasses pressed to their lips, inspecting as the wine swam down until every last drop was ingested. Fists begin to tighten, knuckles turning white as sweaty palms are now grasping the wooden dagger that the servant hid effectively in their belt.
It’s a quick process, really. A fairly reliable source of poison would only take moments to ensue, and the entire jolly group of men from before were now hunched over, gasping and choking on the wine they so gluttonously lived on. Some were brought to their knees, while others would grip onto the edges of the walls, the fireplace, tables- anything to keep them upright. One man screamed out, in the midst of ensuing chaos.
“The wine- It was poisoned!” he croaked out, his lungs now certainly aflame from the herb now burning the walls of the organ as it traveled to their stomachs. Continuing to weaken them, and the burning of rage was evident in the way the same man jutted his index finger in the servant boy’s direction.
“You! Go find whoever is responsible, and bring them to me!”
The fiery words, threatening, a clear death sentence by all means- Yet.. the servant could not help but bite back a grin. As he watched the man so weakly drag his inhibited body from the ground, like his limbs had suddenly become numb- it brought a humored chuckle to the servant. Bewildered by the servant’s clear disobedience, the man’s face contorted in even more detestment.
“Even in such a pathetic state, you still bark orders.. Are you daft?” the servant’s voice was brought to light for the first time that entire evening. Some thought the boy was a mute, and by his status in the servant rank, no one questioned it. But as the ‘boy’ began to speak, other men in the room were tuned in, now trying to get themselves up to take on this intruder of their feast.
“The whole lot of you.. Crippled by a little witch’s brew. I’m rather embarrassed for you, to tell the truth,” the servant spoke again, and in the voice, there’s a clear distinction that is not entirely male.. No, it does not have the timbre of a standard male’s tune, nor follow the same octave. In fact, not male at all.
“When the witches heard of how I sought to bring hell on your little club of merry dead men, they practically rejoiced. You were the ones who were responsible for burning their aspiring youth, their elderly and such, so.. Suppose we shared a similar desire for revenge. How does the saying go..? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’.. Something like that,” it was now clear that the servant was responsible for the poisoning of the wine, and the men were either stunned, or trying to fling themselves from their spots to grasp at the intruder’s throat. Either way, they’d be weakened for a good half an hour or so.
“And.. you.” The servant propped themselves down on their knees in front of the man who spoke earlier, fisting the hair of him before bringing the blade to his throat. It was only moments in which the man laid his eyes upon the ‘servant boy’, that he, too, began to slowly recognize the identity of his enemy.
“Isabelle.. But you can’t..” he began to trail off with a dazed look of confusion, slowly morphing into spiteful anger- as one would expect. Isabelle simply lets out a dry, gruff laugh before inserting the blade all the way into his neck, watching the man howl and grimace as blood began to flow down his pristine whine, buttoned shirt.
“That is for Bartolomé.. Who you threw into your accusations of witchcraft and made me watch as the flames engulfed him.. Slowly..” she begins twisting the blade as her voice drips with animosity, the grief she had been stricken with- now rotting and turning into a form of classified insanity. “I loved him.. Oh, I loved him so. The other half of my heart, the one who was going to take me to the new world.. A gentle man, pure of heart, so much life in his eyes..” she hissed to him, voice breaking and trying to stay collected as the man’s painful expression continued to plead her with his eyes. “And you killed him,” she growled lastly, removing the knife and easily using her grasp of his hair to tear his head from the rest of the body.
The rest of the men were now twitching in their spot on the ground, groans of agony encompassing the atmosphere of the room as the fireplace continued to cackle in the distance. Isabelle stood upright, her short strands of hair now decorated with blood from the insertion of the blade hitting an artery, some splattered on her cheek and on the worn clothes she dressed in.
“You needn’t fear the poison, gentlemen,” she stood up and announced to the rest of the group, leisurely walking around the room and stepping over the limp bodies that scattered randomly across the room. “You have much greater things to tremble at in your near future,” she says with authority clear in her voice, gaze darkened from her masked expression. Nothing but bitterness.. The desire for revenge, for blood to flow for the unjust killing of her lover.
She sees one of the woman in a total fright, shock in her widened eyes and the color washed from her face. She can see her trying to push one of the weakened men awake, presumably in hopes of helping her escape this situation. Isabelle is quick to sink her claws into her hair and stretch her mouth to bare a set of carnal fangs, that of which disappear into her neck to draw out a long cry. Wailing for her life until that same life is drained from her eyes. Throwing the body down to the ground when she disposes of it.
She sees the fireplace in the back of the room, her eyes peeled on the little sparks that’d erupt from the dance of the flames. Something in her stomach churned, and she had to- she simply had to - push her feelings aside. Taking a torch that she easily found from one of the stands in the room, collecting a flame atop it and trying to grip the handle tighter to stop the shakiness in her fingers. She hated fire, absolutely detested, abhorred it. But she had to make them suffer.
One by one, she lit each of them aflame- Already taking the liberty of compelling the maids to coat their rich fabric in a flammable tender cloth to ensure the flames would devour the body whole without any interruptions. High-pitched shrieks and cries of mercy were bouncing off the walls, as each of the vampires were sentenced to the cruel death they inflicted upon her love.
“How does it feel? To drown in the flames that eat at your flesh, to beg for your life as no one — NO ONE— comes to rescue you!?” she shouts in the rooms, her lips twitching as a sick grin starts to play at her lips as she watches the almost ravishing display of revenge in it’s most raw, just form. She stands at the doorway and watches their writhing corpses begin to die off, one by one.
“May God have mercy on your damned souls,” she says, voice bordering a near whisper as she throws the stake into the middle of the room. Watching the furniture and such catch fire in the process of the element beginning to spread, consuming everything in it’s path.
With that, her back turned, she opened the door to exit, and was out of sight before the sun came up again.
