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One cold day in November, 1226 AD
Somewhere in the Southern Uplands…
Gold absolutely makes blood taste better.
A goblet is sipped through fanged teeth, then lowered. A pale, clawed hand swirls the goblet around idly. Red eyes watch the torchlight dance off the shiny rim, illuminating the dark liquid inside. Mmmm...delicious.
Scott lounges across a wooden chair, apathetically gazing at the hall in front of him. The dark oak planks stretch until the doors, lined with empty chairs. The only thing on the table is a demolished pig carcass, bare ribs sticking out of viscera atop a tin platter. He takes another sip of blood and sighs, leaning over the arm of the chair. “What to do, what to do…” he muses. Go for a flight? Pick a servant to be my new jester? Find a poet to write verses about my excellence? Slaughter half a family’s sheep? He stares at the goblet, contemplating. So what if he has a fondness for shiny things? Everything tastes better when you eat with style.
Everything in his domain was securely under his control—it almost made his existence boring. But it was worth it, if it ensured that his pleasurable life could never be upset. Life was a game to be won, after all, and Scott wasn't a fan of losing.
“Lord Mac a' ghobha òir?” a skittish voice calls from behind the heavy doors.
“Thig a-steach!” he calls back, taking another sip of blood. “Entreth!”
One of his servants slowly enters the hall, trepidation evident on his young face. Behind him, a grizzled farmer holds a tattered hat to his chest.
“Feagar math.” he says, flatly. “Pray tell thy plight?”
“Guid eenin, m’laird,” the man calls back nervously. “Ma faimly were wunnerin…culd ye spare a wee few sheep for us?”
This idiot thinks he can ask me to limit my blood supply for him?
“The dreich winter is comin’ fast, an’ we need more o’ our sheep to last—” Scarlet eyes turn to stare at the farmer, who chokes on his own tongue. Scott takes a long drink of blood, wiping off the excess with an undead finger.
He raises a pale eyebrow. “Thy sheep?” The farmer begins stammering, trying to correct himself. Scott leans forward and sets the drained goblet on the table. “Ye ken that lawte is yharnyt our all othir thing.” He eyes the farmer like a wolf, every move deliberate. “Or has thou forgot?”
“Nay! Twas foly—”
“Does thou fenyest? Thou evirmare in thyrldome!”
“Naw, m’laird! Ye art fayr and noble—”
“But aiblins, thou may be tryin’ to escape gret travaill. Didst thou come here to tell thy lord lees?”
“I say nocht bot suthfast thing!” the farmer swears.
Scott grins. Now this is how he shall spend his night. He doesn’t plan on adding to his coven—his last few fledglings turned out to be far too weak. But getting his fangs bloody always helps to keep the serfs in line…
“Does thou need to be reminded quhat is my propyrte?” the lord says, flashing fangs. “Shuld I skelp thee where thou stand?”
“Naw, m’laird! Please!”
“I think thou and thy kin may need a reminder…”
His servant looks close to fainting. The farmer is white, trembling. “M’laird, dinnae fash yersel!” he pleas.
Scott relishes in his dread. Everyone in the palm of his hand, exactly as he wants it. Not a creature breathes unless he permits it.
Oh, that sweet, sweet smell of fear. Intoxicating.
His wine-dark cloak swishes behind him as he walks across the table. He snaps clawed fingers, and guards appear to hold the distraught farmer in place.
“Foul vampire! Unkyndely devil!”
Scott launches himself forward, fangs snapping an inch away from the farmer’s face. “Haud yer wheesht!” he snaps. “Unless thou wants to see thine blood pour from thy neck!”
The servant faints as the vampire, smirking, pushes open the oak doors and enters the moonless night. He turns around to steal one last glance at the horrified serf, trailing one claw down his cheek.
“Ye wrechyt, peely-wally bastard!” The desperate man howls. “Hell mend ye! God or the Devil himsel will get ye soon!”
Scott laughs. He laughs, and he laughs, and he disappears into black smoke. When he reappears, it is in the farmer’s paddock, and the sheep scramble over themselves to get away from him.
Fear was always the most effective form of control.