Prickly thorns, tender roses

Bring your taint

A long, darkened hall was before her; cold, musty air slithered over her flushed face, but the woman wasted not a beat as she disappeared within.

Blackness fell like a shroud and for a beat the fugitive regretted the decision to enter here; but this was no time to wallow. The place seemed deserted and the woman sprang forward, climbing up the poorly lit staircase, failing to notice the sparse, burning torches lining the stone walls.

This... palace of sorts had a foreboding aura, and she struggled with direction in the twilight of its walls. Her steps led ever forward, crossing more stairs and reaching another spacious hall. Immense pillars polished to the smoothness of black glass rose to the ceilings, which hosted masterful murals of various mythical creatures and ancient lore. Her wonder did not last as the beating of whips snapped into the silence, adding to the clamor and rustle of her pursuers. They had apparently renounced their own fears and entered the castle in their own time. The shift in the air made her shiver.

"Here, here, little whore, where ye hiding those fine young bones?" one of them called, the echo of his voice reaching from afar.

"Hold your mangy tongue, Adalbert," another of the black-robed chasers chided. "Have you not heard what they say about this place? Do you want to be the main course of a vampire meal?"

Adalbert sneered. "Bah, humbug for shit-eating peasantry," he grumbled, brandishing a dark hunting knife. "Dracula is dead, and whatever is left is nothing but the shadow of his accursed presence. His blight upon this land is ended. But our work is never done," the man finished gravely as the group of seven climbed the wide stairs, carefully listening for any sound or stir in the dark. The blackness surrounding them closed in, thicker.

"Uh," one man started, a waver in his voice, "did you all notice the lights? Does that not mean someone, or something, yet dwells here? I say... I say we all go back," he muttered fearfully just as the first man who spoke took a fistful of his garb.

"Keep your wits about you Kemeny, for heaven's sake, we're here to finish God's work, not tinkle in our underclothes—"

His torrent ceased when the torches were quenched all at once, though no wind or draught could be felt by any of them.

"Denes," the man stammered, "Denes, let's leave this place, she'll find her end either way, I wager," the one called Kemeny insisted with their leader, losing his composure.

"Onward I say, or God save me I'll submit to have you all excommunicated, living as pariahs on the outskirts of our township, prey to whatever night terrors'll see fit to feast on your soft heads!" Denes ground out before the unsettled men, now following him with significantly less aplomb than before.

From her hidden place behind a cabinet in one side chamber, the young woman listened. She listened, only for their steps to grow louder, their voices hoarser the closer they appeared. Soon they would reach the corridor.

"We check each of these rooms," she heard and froze, her heart a hammering mess behind her ribs. She looked to where she gripped a small blade, her only weapon. "Keep your bearings, Ravenna. If this is to be your end, prey to these bastards or whatever dwells here, so be it," she whispered, and with fateful resignation, but also determined to do all she could to survive this, the woman straightened and rose from her hiding place.

An eerie stillness fell about the room; there was a ringing in her ears and a heaviness pressed on her temples; just as swiftly, she felt a presence.

"What is this taint you bring into my home?" A calm, unearthly voice.

It was close, too, and whatever the source of the words, the woman shuddered as the skin on the back of her neck pricked. Her pulse throbbed with menacing swiftness. Of course, threats and peril loomed from places unsought for. Her head swiveled to her left, but there was no one there. The woman stilled, and tendrils of fear reached through her despite her resolve. The foreign voice was soft, almost tender to the ears, were it not for the dispassionate and monotonous quality of the words.