I am not a lady, not from a gender perspective but from a decorum and cultural one. A lady is prim and proper, dedicated to maintaining the highest standards. No... I am a mistress of the dark, a prefer this letter of address much better. Someone once spoke those words to me, and not that fool who courts me. Calling himself a lord, a noble title I doubt he could even claim. But a single creature, a Volkaran they are called, barely out of cubhood. The one that found myself in a crypt.

  I recall it as if it were yesterday — such a lovely time in the dark. Oh, the casket was perfect; not a single sound could reach me within that abyss. So very peaceful, I even had time to work on poetry. Vael saran nocthar sarair. Your blood sings to me, and the night sings to thee. Not my best work, but I can't recall ever being good at poetry. Perhaps another interest will take me, since elder is such a flowery language. Oddly, I seem to prefer Grimgardian, the common tongue. Although I have no clue why or how I know it.

  However, in the depths of my solitude, a sound, so faint as if it never occurred, resounds. With a small, hesitant tapping from above, it called to me like a siren song. Beckoning from my silent world into the realm beyond it. I hesitated, but only for a moment, before replying. Tap, tap, did I reply, receiving a more confident response. Whispers accompanied a single voice.

  "Something in here?" He sounded young, a youth barely escaping adolescents.

  "Someone." I said.

  What followed was a rather amusing, frightful creature cowering before me. I had easily escaped my confines and stood before the kneeling creature. It was bipedal, humanoid in form and possessed the head of a canine and the claws of a predator. Brown fur covered its entire body with not but a loincloth for modesty.

  "Dark mistress." It spoke in awe of me, and I felt it.

  Ever since then, he — and it was he, followed me around like a lost puppy. I quickly made this wayward Volkaran my attendant after the lord of this temple found us. He was eager to serve. I asked him once why that was, and he told me a lovely tale. In ancient times, my kind once ruled these lands as kings and gods. Something within me spoke to him the moment he laid eyes upon my form.

  "Kings and gods, you say?" I recall uttering.

  "Yes, dark mistress." He called me.

  "How dreadful; such a loyal creature deserves not a king nor a god." I remember leaning down to pat his adorable head. "He deserves a queen."

  Suddenly I am pulled to the present and the task at hand. The world came into focus, with the massive corpse taking prominence. Merely a curiosity, as some aspects of Calverus work were fascinating. Such as his necromantic efforts, using his dirty blood as a catalyst. Mongrels always seek power, even if they spread corruption and decay. Those not born to greatness seldom reach it, and the methods they employ have costs greater than they can pay.

  "Mistress, he approaches." Zan whispered.

  He didn't have a name before, and when I suggested he name himself, that is what he came up with. According to him, it was the name of a legendary hero to the Volkaran.

  "How does he seem?"

  He takes a deep breath, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. His race had a lot in common with canines, mannerisms that likely carried over in their creation. The Strigoi of old seemed to enjoy mixing races with humans. Perhaps they sought more exotic blood or just more weaponized servants.

  "He smells livid, angry and scornful."

  "His natural state, wonderful."

  I could sense him as well; however, my kind's sensory abilities we less acute than Volkaran. Especially our noses, I mean we can easily sense blood. But to sense a person's mood, that requires a far better nose than my kind can field. Luckily, our hearing is well above the norm, and the telltale footsteps of a livid vampire enter the room. Heavy steps, Garathi soldiers no doubt accompanied him.

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  "Lady Griselda, what an honour for you to visit my humble laboratory." A voice laced with a pleasant poison resounded in my ear.

  "Lord Calverus... a pleasure." I presented a hand, eyes locked to the corpse.

  I felt his lips touch skin, and I withheld the desire to retract the gesture. Luckily, he was far too preoccupied to linger for very long. I sensed him shortening the distance between us, settling beside me, just as a lover would seamlessly slip into a position of such intimacy. I could unveil my claws and slash across his face, but saner heads prevailed. If such a thing existed.

  "Do you have an interest in necromancy?" He whispered, trying to infuse his words with a charm skill.

  It had barely had any effect, but I humoured him. Keeping my tone light and friendly, as if that poultry skill had some effect. "It is a fascination of mine; what do you plan to do with the troll?" I asked.

  I felt his gaze turn away from me and assess the giant mangled corpse of the former troll of the arena. I recalled his name was Mash. A rather odd creature that equated his slaughter with artistic skill. Perhaps he was right or insane. Either way, art is the result.

  "I have had some successes in raising undead thralls. Our blood is a potent agent in creating undead servants." He explained to me, his supposed student.

  "Our blood?" A little jab, not enough to provoke.

  "We are vampires."

  You are a vampire; I am a Strigoi. The thought never left, the inherent sense of superiority, the blood whispered in my ear, secrets beyond compare. However, another sense compelled me to stay my tongue. That I am not the predator, but the prey, standing before was an existence well beyond me. No matter how polluted his blood may be, his level proved his strength.

  "Yes, we are." I conceded, and he seemed mollified.

  "I am curious about the process; do you have a necromancer class?" That may have been a poor question; he had been rather tight-lipped about his abilities.

  "Of course not," he sniffed. "This is merely an experiment, not a spell or skill." He explained haughtily.

  "If it is not necromancy, then how do you raise the dead?" This time I was genuinely curious.

  His hands seized my chin faster than I could react, further proof of his formidable power. I ached to tear those fingers in half, but stopped myself in the act. Sending a glare to Zan, who was already reaching for his blade, he stood down with a look.

  "Embrace your senses and pierce through the veil of flesh and bone... you will see the truth."

  For once, I actually listened to the man and followed his instructions. Letting all other senses fall to nothing, I focused entirely on the corpses in front of me. A rather large cell, likely used to cage monsters, locked its massive frame. The first thing I noticed was the lack of scent. The corpse didn't smell dead. I knew the scent of a corpse, and this one had none of the grotesque smells of death. It smelled familiar, as if a piece of our kind lay dormant beneath the flesh, tracing its way through the veins.

  Eyes opening wide, I knew what he had done. No, what he had achieved. The troll was dead, truly dead, but the scent of its soul lingered. There was life within, a new life. The corpse was undead. I didn't need to have concrete memories to know this was new. Vampires are creatures of immortal life, not undead. Such things should be separate from one another. And yet he had achieved a new race of vampire, combining the eternal blood with undeath.

  "An undead vampire."

  "Indeed, my dear, not exactly the outcome I hoped for. But it is quite a surprise. Who knew our blood could create such things?" He spoke with manic glee of a mage just shy of greatness.

  "Is he the only creature you have created?" I wondered aloud.

  Sniffing as if affronted by the air itself, he spoke with cold indifference. "Unfortunately, no, although it has yet to show any worth beyond manual labour." He glanced down the corridor.

  "So, intelligence is a factor. Perhaps the process decreases their intelligence attribute." I suggested.

  "Correct, my dear, I had a few of my servants cast the analysis spell and determined that was the case."

  "I wonder what the cause is?"

  "It could be several factors, but no need to bore you with the details.

  To be truly honest, I wish he would not bore me with the details. At least his ramblings were more interesting than his pathetic attempts at flirting. However, thankfully, I am saved from another attempt by a newcomer's arrival. The familiar Volkarans saddle up beside their masters and whisper into their ears. I don't know his name, but Zan refers to him as Doctore, a slave wrangler and trainer, based on his explanation of the man.

  "By the blood gods, it's broken again!" Calverus choked on his next words, frustrated and displeased.

  "Apologise master, but we lack the wisdom to repair the arena's blood collector." He said, eyes lowered to the ground, face a mask of submission.

  I tilted my head to the side, reclaiming my senses and showering them upon the one known as Doctore. He just lied to his master, not for the first time, but this deception seems less a means to cover himself and more deliberate. The creature lacks the spontaneity of an improvisation. This feels planned. Something is afoot, and I am dying to see it.

  "May I accompany you? This contraption sounds interesting." Instead of alerting my host, I played along, eager to see.

  He turned to me, a slight frown on his scowling face before the beaming glee returned, as an opportunity to impress me landed right in his lap. As expected, he mustered up his poor attempt at decorum as we locked arms and made our way to the arena. I wonder so what fun will be next.

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