DROPS OF BLOOD
Good Help
The doors swung open and he walked into a large gymnasium-like room which contained several people of varying sizes, shapes, hair color, and (God give him strength) ages.
"Sir, I am proud to present you with our top genin teams. Everyone, this is our client: Count Vlad Dracula."
It irked him to demote himself so, but he had decided that giving his hereditary title would cause too much of a fuss.
He eyed each of them, using a mental checklist similar to the one he used in the purchasing and breeding of horses. His distress grew as he noted the girth of one boy, the tension between two girls—one blond, the other with a bizarre pink hair that was natural (God be merciful)—that seemed to center around a sullen lad with handsome features. He was also concerned about the young man in a green bodysuit that matched that of his teacher's, but that was for other reasons entirely.
Dracula wondered how he looked to them: tall, pale, pointy ears and long talon-like fingernails, surrounded by his raven-black Dragon Cape and bearing icy blue eyes that held one like an iron vice.
He was answered by an odd boy, the shortest of the group with shockingly loud clothes that seemed to attempt to match his voice (and failed).
"Why are you wearing that thing? You cold?"
The cape was regally gathered, and the vampire lord spared him a glance that was colder than any temperature he could ever feel.
"You are certain of your choices?" he asked, carefully keeping his voice in its dark neutrality.
"They wouldn't be here if I were not, sir," the man that the village's ruler had detailed to assist him had a noticeable scar across his face. Dracula had seen more impressive wounds, but he felt he couldn't help but trust this man, who seemed experienced enough.
"Very well…"
God help him.