Tags: vampire whumper, vampire hunter whumpee, defiant whumpee, mind control, brainwashing, knives, blood, forced to murder, whumpee forced to whump or whatever you call that. | Words: 2.5k
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Cassian startled at the sharp creaking of hinges when the bathroom door swung open. No knock? he thought, but didn’t say anything. He only frowned at Rahadin as the elf entered the room, looking satisfied when he saw that Cassian was dried and dressed.
"If you're finished, I'll escort you to the master's suite. He's ready for you now," Rahadin said.
Cassian silently seethed in the stuffy outfit. It reminded him of Escher, that damned blonde vampire. Wearing some shit like this, getting groped and manhandled and bitten and worse probably.
Cassian didn't like this. He didn’t like this at all one fucking bit. But he wore it anyway, with his old clothes unusable. He grit his teeth. It was better than nothing, he told himself.
Eye twitching slightly, but biting his tongue, Cassian followed Rahadin out of the bathroom and down the castle hallway. He vowed to give Strahd a piece of his mind as soon as he got the chance.
Down more dimly lit stone hallways, until Rahadin escorted Cassian to an ornate door. Cassian could hear a faint whimpering through the carved wood. Rahadin opened the door, bowed, then gestured to Cassian to go inside.
"Here he is, my liege."
"Excellent, thank you, Rahadin," came Strahd's voice.
Rahadin stepped aside, revealing a large, ornate, four-poster bed with red sheets and black curtains. Strahd was laid across it, in a satin dressing gown.
Cassian slowly stepped inside, then visibly recoiled.
A human woman lay face-up on the bed beside him, paralyzed. There were two puncture marks in her neck, which were still dripping blood. Strahd licked a drop from his lip, then beckoned Cassian to approach with one curled finger.
“Wh-what are you doing to her—!?” Cassian exclaimed, even though it was pretty obvious. Strahd was going to feed from that woman right in front of him. Shit— what was Cassian supposed to do?
Was not his whole entire job—his reason for existence—predicated on the premise of rescuing innocent human life from the jaws of greedy sadistic vampires? And here was the king bastard himself, feeding on an innocent human being right in front of him. He had to do something.
Cassian’s wrist instinctively flew to his hip, where his silver dagger typically rested—where it always had, before it’d been knocked loose when he’d been dragged through brambles and boulders on the Old Svalich road. A jolt of panic hit him when his hand found nothing there but empty space and the textured embroidery of his too-fancy regalia.
Strahd let out a purring laugh. "Even if you had your knife, you'd still be just as helpless. I appreciate the effort, though. The fear in your eyes."
Strahd sat upright, looming over the woman on the bed next to him.
"Come here, Cassian. Come sit with me. Tonight, I am going to make you the thing you hate the most: A murderer of the innocent, to take their blood. And you will not even have the excuse of being a spawn under my control to shield yourself."
Cassian stepped back, recoiling in horror. “No—!”
He didn’t even fully know what he was objecting to. But it sounded like Strahd was going to make him kill that woman. Or turn him into a vampire and make him drink her. With his shit luck, it’d be both.
“No,” he said again, more resolutely this time, voice shaking a little less.
“You’re going to let me fucking go. And her too. Im not here to be your fucking plaything,” Cassian spat.
"That is exactly what you are here for, foolish boy."
Strahd's eyes flared with hypnotic power--not enough to completely overwhelm him, but just enough to make him squirm and struggle to keep his resolve.
"I said, come here."
Cassian’s breath hitched as he felt Strahd’s will overtake him— not fully, but enough to muddle his senses, to compel him to move his feet without his fully sober consent. He didn’t feel sober anymore—Fuck— Was he actually intoxicated? Was that how Strahd did it?
Strahd’s face shimmered in the light now, just a bit. The rest of the world seemed to warp around the vampire lord’s face. Cassian loathed the way it made him feel—like that time his friend had dared him to try those weird mushrooms they had found in the woods. It had made the colors all weird—made everything hum and buzz and glow— it had warped his senses in a way that went galaxies beyond his control.
Strahd made him feel a little bit like that, every time he’d encountered him, but this time the feeling was radiating through him—penetrating through bone. Strahd seemed to zoom closer, getting larger and larger in Cassian’s narrowing vision, before Cassian realized with horror that it was himself that was moving, not Strahd.
It was like being ridiculously high with moments of stark sparkling blinding clarity. Clarity that horrified.
He was within Strahd’s reach now, some awful invisible gravity pulling him closer to him against his will.
Cassian found himself kneeling on the mattress in front of him, gazing up at Strahd with slightly glassy eyes that still shook with fear.
Every rational inch of him wanted to scream. To run away. To stab and kill and— but with what?
Cassian tried to move. To lunge at Strahd.
But it just felt like so much effort. He couldn't bring himself to move from the kneeling position. Every fiber of his being felt woven of lead.
"There you are," Strahd said, his face twisting into a smile.
One talon came up and ran through Cassian's hair.
"You've cleaned up so nicely. To think a few hours ago you were being dragged through the mud behind me."
Cassian felt something metal pressing into his palm, then looked down to see Strahd handing him a knife. He leaned over and whispered into his ear, almost sensually.
"The knife you wanted so badly. Slit her throat. Make a feast for me. Do it by your own hand, knowing that if you'd only been just a little stronger to resist, she would still be alive."
Cassian felt his fingers grip around the knife. Shaking, he looked down at his own hand, and knew that this arm was no longer his own. It belonged to Strahd now, his authority sealed the moment he’d uttered the words and given him the weapon. Strahd could order Cassian to slit his own throat right now, and Cassian’s arm would probably move to make it happen.
Cassian could only hope he had control of his other arm at that point, but he had no idea how any of Strahd’s mind control abilities worked. He was worse off now especially, his mind still swimming in the swirling notes of the mushroom’s haze—of Strahd’s particular haze, he had to remind himself.
It was like he'd been drugged. He hadn’t let himself be dr— or—or he had? Had he? Maybe?— fuck— it was getting so hard to think.
“Please don’t make me,” he managed to say, but it came out still weak and hoarse. A desperate whisper.
He wouldn’t do it. What Strahd wanted. He couldn’t. He willed his arm to raise and sink the knife into Strahd’s own chest instead, just to make a point.
’You will never own me,’ the point said. ‘I will never be your puppet.’
Raise, his arm did. Sink into Strahd’s chest, it did not.
Instead, it rose to meet the woman’s quivering form.
“No—!” he cried out, not recognizing his own voice.
Cassian felt the liquid in the corners of his eyes swell in anger—in frustration, terror— in anguish at his own sheer fucking helplessness. He had to fucking do something.
His hand quivered with the blade just above her throat. Why wouldn’t she resist? Why wouldn’t she stop him? Do something!
‘Resist me, please,’ he thought desperately. His hand quivered, the blade just above her jugular.
The woman's cloudy eyes fixed on the knife. Strahd stretched out beside her, propped up on his elbow. He reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger.
"What did I tell you, Gertruda? That your knight in shining armor was coming? You probably didn't expect which of us he'd be killing, though."
She strained against whatever force was holding her, raising one shaky hand to press against Cassian's wrist, as if to say, please don't.
"Go on, then," Strahd said.
Despite Cassian's desperate prayers, his hand moved and brought the dagger down on the woman's throat, slicing it open. She gurgled and thrashed weakly.
Strahd leaned over and took her in his arms, like they were going to make out, except his mouth went to her neck, not to kiss, but to sip at the open wound. He swallowed over and over as though it were the sweetest nectar. The color gradually faded from her cheeks, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Cassian shuddered in horror at what his own hands had just done. The way it had felt. How soft her flesh had been beneath the sharpened blade of the knife. How easy it had opened before his eyes. Beneath his own fingers.
He felt the tears falling before he realized he was crying. He was crying for this woman, shaking for her and for the anger he felt—at Strahd—at himself, for being too weak to resist it.
The blade slipped from his fingers and he numbly sat back on his knees. Cassian watched helplessly as Strahd sucked at the fresh corpse. It was nauseating. It was revolting. Cassian felt his stomach churn and his fingers itch for the blade again just so he could sink it into Strahd’s throat. If even just in protest for this woman’s death. So it wouldn’t have been for nothing.
The desire to stab Strahd was a funny thought, considering Cassian had done it before. Shoved his own silver dagger straight through Strahd’s neck only a few days prior. Not that it’d had much effect on the vampire—the wound had healed in seconds—but Cassian didn’t regret the choice, even though it had gotten him bitten nearly to death. It was worth it to save Veruska, the dusk elf paladin who was, when Cassian really thought about it, the only one in that ragtag group of travelers that he actually sort of liked. He had respected her. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Cassian found himself twitching to grab the knife again. The memory of Strahd choking Veruska out with his superhuman strength, the image of Strahd right in front of him, sipping from a fresh human corpse—Cassian couldn’t take it. He couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. He had to stop being so useless.
But Cassian found he once again couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only sit there and watch and let the tears silently roll down. Strahd’s will held him completely still, and he knelt there, petrified.
The world still shone and glimmered around Strahd, even as he fed from the corpse. Everything sparkled off of him as if light and shadow themselves were forged to accent the peaks and valleys of his face. The woman’s blood ran down his chin, a bright vivid crimson against his snow-like complexion.
Strahd picked up the knife, licking the excess blood off it like it was cake frosting. "Poor Cassian. All alone with me now."
He tossed the knife away, then held Cassian's face in his hands, wiping Cassian's tears with his thumbs. He released his hold over Cassian—au natural—for whatever delicious struggle he was sure was about to ensue.
As though plunged into an icy pool of water, sobriety hit Cassian and a freight train of horror came with it. Whatever part of him Strahd’s magic was keeping at bay broke loose like floodgates, and Cassian found himself shaking miserably with hatred and heartbreak in Strahd’s proximity.
Strahd tilted Cassian's head and leaned in, very delicately licking Cassian's cheeks, tasting the salty tears and the remnants of smeared blood from Strahd's own hands.
Cassian flinched hard, letting out a noise of panic when he felt Strahd’s tongue on his face. Instantly, his hands rose to push back against Strahd’s chest. It was more unconscious than anything. A normal, confident version of himself would’ve decked Strahd right in the face. But there was nothing normal about this. Nothing normal or sane about what had just happened, or about where he was, or about who was in front of him, pulling all his threads like he were a mere toy on a string.
“Let me—fucking go—!” He shouted, trying to push Strahd away and scramble back on the bed. The other human was dead. He’d surely be next. He had to get out of here now.
His eyes flicked to the door behind him. Could he make it? Maybe if he managed to injure Strahd somehow, he could make a break for it. His leg was still fucked, but what choice did he have?
Strahd noted the direction of Cassian's gaze and smiled, showing his teeth had shifted into something more wolfish. An animalistic growl rumbled in his throat. "Go ahead, hunter. The chase is fun. Seeing you be hunted is thrilling." He nibbled on Cassian's earlobe, breathing heavily. "Run, then, if you want to go so badly."
Cassian scrambled off the bed, losing his balance in his panic and crumpling to the floor in a heap. He groaned at the pain in his leg before staggering back to his feet.
No, no— Cassian remembered the last time Strahd had ordered him to run. He’d ended up harpooned through the leg and dragged around through the mud for miles.
Cassian knew this was just another game to him, Strahd was only playing around. But this was no game to Cassian. This was life or gruesome fucking death.
He would just have to find somewhere to hide. Maybe something to cover his scent so the vampire couldn’t smell him? But fuck, what could he use?
There was no time to think about it. He took the opportunity for what it was. A chance, however slim, to put some distance between himself and this monster. Strahd really did look monstrous once again, to Cassian now. The warm glow around his skin was gone, the light no longer shined to reflect in his eyes. He was a gruesome horrid sight, covered in that poor woman’s blood and bloody fanged smile splitting his face apart. Cassian wasn’t going to spend another second in here if he didn’t have to.
Pain from the harpoon’s bloody performance radiated up his leg, but he found he hardly cared now. Finally free of Strahd’s persuasion, adrenaline once again flooding his system, Cassian bolted to the door and booked it.
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More is written and lemme tell you— It only gets worse from here!! Worse for Cassian. Not worse for us. If anything, things will be even better for us. Hell yeah.
Once upon a time, the plural of ‘wizard’ was ‘war’.
The world of Ludere is a chaotic place with hard-won islands of stability and safety. At present, much of the map can and is labeled as “Wastelands” in the aftermath of magical experiments gone awry, or the debatably more destructive aftermaths of magical wars of various types. Monsters of many kinds--animal, vegetable, and mineral, just for starters--stalk the landscape. Needless to say, this makes trade, travel, communications, and general survival distinctly hazardous.
While major settlements do exist, they’re often heavily fortified and attempt to be as self-sufficient as possible. Which, of course, means the use of magic, which of course means magic users... and for every grounded and pragmatic wielder of magic, there are at least five to ten who think that they should be in charge of their settlement or kingdom, or that they will be able to summon and bind a demon lord successfully, or that they can raise undead to do their bidding...
And, well, it rarely works out well for anyone involved or within the blast radius.
As such, the wastelands are filled with the remains of abandoned, destroyed, corrupted, enchanted, or otherwise dead settlements, along with military forts, wizard lairs, ancient tombs, and monster dens, with the occasional bandit camp or rogue demon to add spice. This isn’t to say that the wastelands are empty of people--far from it. Farms and villages still dot the landscape, and the towns and cities patrol what they can, and one can generally stick to the main roads between places without risk of being killed, enslaved, eaten, mind-controlled, or some combination of the above. Of course, doing so is a roll of the dice, and every so often, they come up snake-eyes. (Or vampire eyes. Or dragon eyes. Or demon eyes. Or thing-with-too-many-eyes.)
So there is a distinct choice in the cultural spread of society. One can live and work in a town or city and have access to superior goods and services... but these are nearly universally ruled by magic users. In essence, one is giving up freedom for safety and some degree of prosperity... and a hope that the Master’s experiments don’t involve human subjects.
On the other end of the spectrum, one can live as a Waster. Poor--because if they had anything of note, the townies would likely come and take it--uncultured, self-reliant, and brutally pragmatic. In the middle are the peasants of the villages, who live out from underneath the immediate thumbs of their lords, but are still dipping their toes into the Wastes, with all of the threats that implies.
Within the towns, however, goods and services are more abundant; magical healing is available, as is education, along with water that (almost) certainly won’t transform the drinker into anything unpleasant, and other such utilities and services. Governments are typically straightforward and autocratic, but even necromancers have an appreciation for the finer things in life (despite their reputations, a crumbling ruin is still very lacking in creature comforts) and that requires other people and delegation. Even constructs can only manage so much, and minions don’t grow on trees (despite the best efforts of some wizards).
Should I make the TMA Fears into dnd-style fantasy religions? I already have the one for corruption, I’ll probably open suggestions for most of the others
Should I make the TMA Fears into dnd-style fantasy religions?
The subraces of the diezmo, or sky'lk, of the New Imperial Loreverse in ceremonial dress. These tieflings are part of my DnD homebrew setting and are going in my lore primer. Yap about them below >>
After the opening of the Boca del Infierno by foolhardy human nobility, the sky'lk developed their culture in relative isolation in the Underdark, leading to rich traditions including high ornamentation for everyday wear. Subraces follow the lineage of patron archdevil Lords, as in canon DnD lore, and common offerings and symbolism are notated. The subraces, or loc'sky'lk (Colors of the Lords), adhere to fairly consistent trades and skills within the sky'lk, and derive their respective cantrips from their Lords, making up larger social classes. The intermarriage of a now long-gone overseas colonial group lent the diezmo the human portion of their blood at the fall of the First Empire. It also influenced their linguistic and aesthetic values - this is clearest in the fashions of their traditional armour, and their name to other races, diezmo, short for diezmadores, the tithers or the decimated.
It is not the overseas tongue spoken by the race, though, but a pidgin of tlic'tp, the liturgical language of the diezmo. Most sky'lk grow up bilingual by default, but the very insular clans speak only tlic'tp. Along with their lineage-lords, the skh'lk revere a mysterious fae spirit of the Upper Planes called the Intercesora; the drips in limestone caverns of aquifer pools are said to be her voice, and have been notated in tlic'tp since the dawn of the diezmo race. The syllabic click language is designed to resemble these subterranean sounds of falling water. Its flowing calligraphy form decorates almost all diezmo clothing, in no greater glory than on the ceremonial chapel and diplomatic wear of the races.
Worship of the skh'lk Lords is shrouded in esoteric tradition, with belief in the magic of charms, gemstones, prayer medallions and potions still ruling the faith of many of the tlic'tp. Jewelry hewn from the abundant ore of Yuri's Back drips over every part of their bodies, said to draw the patron Lords closer to oneself. Since the enslavement of the tieflings in the mines during the Second Empire, these traditions have grown possibly even more fervent, with most diezmo taking a coming-of-age ceremony involving a hot branding iron and swearing never to leave the Black City Sangre or the rim of the Boca. The scar of the iron, tp’uik’sky (my promise to the Father), can be seen on the chest of most faithful.
Very few rebel against the enslavement of their race or the stripping of their ancestral wealth, placing their hopes in the hands of the Intercesora to spread her merciful arms and guide them back home into the Nine Hells, 'lk. Only those skh'lk of Zariel, diezmadores Dezariels, are of the constitution to become vigilantes, establishing colonies as far as the Caliphate. While still shunned by other races, those who defect from the promise of the Boca perceive freedom as their divine vocation.
