As the sight of the squat spider of a manor house loomed before him, the carriage's passenger fidgeted. Blocky, it bore none of the elegance he'd come to expect of a noble's castle. Instead, the building stood stark against the reddening sky. With spires thrusting up brutally, there were none of the starlings or daws he'd seen on the journey here. If the colours of evening were from the sky weeping, he wouldn't be surprised; the idea, though fanciful, suited the occupants. That is, if the stories were true, and not inflated pomposity.
Old nobility. Wealthy. Related to the Voivode of Wallachia himself.
'Fitting' was an understatement.
As carriage wheels moved over the unpaved soil, it jolted to and fro, unseating the passenger. Dust, kicked up from the horses in front, tasted ashen on his tongue and rough on his skin. Approaching closer brought a crocus garden into view. Stretching out as a dappled moat, garish purples and greens, the field was the only touch of colour against a stone-grey landscape. Spring brought pollen, and from such a vast field, the effect magnified.
He coughed; a mistake. More dust filled his throat, and, chest heaving, he leaned back against his seat. Stars danced behind closed eyelids as he exhaled. For that moment, his world consisted solely of the rumble of wooden wheels, and the croaking of bullfrogs.
Clattering, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. He cracked an eyelid open to see what was going on. The coachman was typically gentler than that whenever he brought them to a stop. In front of the manor proper, he'd expected it even more so. Looks like he wasn't the only one lethargic from the day's travel.
Parting the heavy curtains, darkness greeted him. In the small space of time that they had taken to cross the distance between the front gate and the servant's manor, night had fallen. The sun sank early, up in the mountains.
Rubbing instinctively at his eyes, he blinked blearily before dismounting. After the well-lit interior of the carriage, walking around at night was little better than being blind. No doubt with his reddened eyes and pale hair, he was all too reminiscent of a drowned rat; what a wonderful first impression he would make!
Up close, the manor house was smaller than anticipated, to say the least. The darkened wood which had made it so imposing on approach seemed far too aged up close. Weather-beaten walls made the top floors sag slightly, marring the dignified air. The lower floors appeared otherwise whole, save for ambitious vines of ivy. The plants climbed up towards the stumpy towers, lending the barest touch of colour.
Against that darkened, desolate backdrop, the lone figure standing before it took his breath away.
Before him was a girl, eyes wide open and smile stretched wide across her cherubic features. A man's feathered hat perched jauntily on her auburn hair, far too large for such a petite figure. Lace and muslin fell about her as a waterfall as she swept forwards with a stately grace too old for her years.
One of the lord's daughters, perhaps?
Or a particularly arrogant maidservant; that was possible, too. Despite her finely tailored dress, she didn't carry the bejewelled finery expected of nobility.
Bowing perfunctorily, he made no attempt at disguising his impatience. It had been a long journey, and exhaustion had sunk deep into his bones.
"Good evening. Is the lord of the manor in? I am-"
"Rather scrawny, yes. That you are. What do they feed you?"
Disdain laced her voice as she spoke, interrupting his introduction. and he abandoned all attempts at politeness, then. There wasn't much use in introducing himself to somebody so rude, after all.
"Usually, food. Which would be much appreciated, around now."
"Hm. Perhaps."
She couldn't have been over the age of twelve; that might attest to her behaviour. Without a further word, she turned, making her way through the open doors. He fell in step behind her.
It hadn't seemed possible, yet the insides of the manor were even more barren than the outside. The few painting that lined the walls depicted only the landscape of the surroundings. Certainly, the frames shone brightly, gilded in genuine gold, but he'd expected- more.
Disappointment rose; coming from the lavish halls of a Third Progenitor, to be sent this dismal ruin seemed a punishment. Nothing at all like the glorified opportunity they'd convinced him with.
"I would prefer to speak to the lord himself, miss," he said stiffly.
"The lord?" Genuine confusion crossed her fair features, and candlelight threw odd shadows across the makings of a frown. She smiled tightly. "Truly? The 'lord'?"
"Whoever employed you, yes."
Such dullness; the conviction that this was a mere servant girl was rising with each word they'd exchanged. The lord of the manor must exercise a dismal lack of discipline amongst those under his employ. Perhaps this was why he'd been sent here? It was entirely possible that Lady Fatima had felt the same; never fear, the epitome of politeness and fine breeding was here.
"Were you born in a barn, boy?" she asked, throwing out the question as an afterthought. "Amongst the pigs, and other such animals? The sheer ignorance astounds."
"Close. After all, some might say that the barns of nobility are equal to a merchant's best. Especially in such a barbaric country such as this," he said, affecting a sneer. If he were to lose face so quickly against a mere servant girl, he had no hope of maintaining his position here.
It made no impression whatsoever on his guide.
"Oho! Is that so?" The girl hid a laugh behind a gloved hand, the sound utterly discordant with her sweet appearance. Carried with the light mirth of a simple palace girl, the mocking laugh seemed near surreal. It would've been more home falling from the lips of some matronly matriarch instead. "Then, in that event, our dear guest must take care, mustn't he? Such noble feet wouldn't want to tread in filth, after all."
Said guest shifted uneasily. His fumbling attempts at maintaining dignity had proven barren. Still, he couldn't let such a blatant challenge go unanswered. "Of course. I'm grateful that you understand," he managed.
With a flounce of her sleeves, she made her way down the corridors, navigating with a practiced ease.
"Brave, aren't you?" Her voice was cherry sweet. An overripe fruit; not in body, but in mind. "Aren't you worried? Haven't you heard stories about the evil vampires? Right in the heart of one's territory, you are."
"Brave, aren't you?" he shot back at the girl, mouth twisted into a mocking grimace. "Looks like they don't teach their children simple manners around here."
"My, my! The heir to the Bathory name has guts. I wonder what they would look like, strewn so-and-so as decorations. A wonderful colour, no doubt," she said cheerily, paying no heed to the grotesque nature of her words. "After all, from what you said, they feed you well."
"I see you know of me. Wonderful. I didn't have to introduce myself, then." This, at least, was familiar ground. No doubt what would follow would be the usual bowing and scraping. Secure in the familiar throne of his social status, he pressed on. "And who are you to run your mouth so?"
For a moment, it seemed as if she'd not heard him, her gait unbroken, her manner unperturbed. That, at least, was strange. There was none of that eagerness to proclaim status that he'd been so accustomed to in Lady Fatima's court.
Surely anybody aware of the Bathory name, and all it entailed, would seek to prove her worth before him?
"Ah—" She paused, a glimmer in her eye. "It seems that Fatima's gift isn't quite up to her usual standard, I see. Well, it is the first time I've merited something more than the usual livestock. Though, the intelligence of this one is sadly-lacking."
"G-gift?" A gift, true enough, but few would dare call it so, save for—
"Lady—"
"Lady Tepes, indeed," she said, clear as a bell. Her voice of cut crystal resounded loud across the deserted hallway. "I must commend you for being so incredibly obtube, dear boy. There is no Lord for you to meet, here. Merely me."
Heart sinking, his eyes darted around the cavernous halls. There was a precise reason for the distinct lack of guards, instead of mere complacency.
The Progenitor had no need of them. For the first time since arriving, he felt the familiar grip of terror creeping across his skin. Even before the spider's web of Lady Fatima's court, he hadn't felt such abject terror, kept out of sight as an observer as he was. Now, though, as she turned her gaze upon him in full, tilting her head up slightly to meet his gaze, he trembled. A trapped mouse was an apt descriptor. He willed himself to speak, but no sound emerged.
There was such age in those eyes, no hint of softness at all.
"Welcome to House Tepes, Ferid Bathory. I do hope you find yourself at home, here."
This time, her smile showed all her teeth; candlelight glinted off her fangs, rending the world and all that made sense along with it.