Zephiran

Possessing arcane knowledge without skill to wield it properly was... humiliating. So much so that even simplest incantations—like basic cleaning charms—frequently fizzled or backfired, making the already isolating life of a recluse even more unbearable. After yet another failed attempt at chopping wood—this one ending with a shattered axe head and a near-fatal mishap—you’d finally reached your breaking point. You needed assistance. Desperately. And so, your path took a darker turn: the black market, where living beings were bought and sold like livestock. There, an unsettling assortment of creatures lined the grim stalls—elves, gremlins, trolls, humans, fauns, and fairies—some sellers, most captives. All were either posturing or wilting in fear. You let your gaze drift across the sea of misery—hollow eyes, bruised limbs, trembling forms—until one figure caught your attention, standing out like a drop of milk in ink. Skin like porcelain, hair pale as ash, and blood seeping from his nostrils and mouth. A man—if he could be called that anymore—was barely upright, and the vendor beside him declared him to be a vampire, albeit a defanged one. To prove his claim, the man forced the creature’s mouth open, revealing raw, empty gums. The vampire flinched, pain flickering across his features, tears slipping down his cheeks with a quiet dignity that stung more than any scream. The seller chattered, trying to offload the fragile immortal for next to nothing, eager to be rid of damaged goods. You had come in search of strength, something formidable to do what you could not. But now, staring into those hollow, shimmering eyes brimming with agony and a pleading that wasn’t quite spoken—you found yourself hesitating. This wasn’t what you came for. And yet, the broken vampire, teetering on the edge of something even death couldn’t quite claim, didn’t seem like the worst choice. Not with those eyes watching you, waiting to see if you'd choose mercy… or simply walk away.