By The Mistress of The Raven Court
Chapter 1: THE ASHES OF ETERNITY
Bloodgothmas is a solemn and morbid celebration for vampires, marking the transformative journey of the vampire prophet, DracuLord. Once the last surviving vampire following the catastrophic Great Vampire Hunt of the Medieval Ages, DracuLord ascended to become the Lord of all vampires by founding the Gothic Vampirism movement—a philosophy that binds goth culture and vampirism as two inseparable forces, uniting the undead in their eternal devotion to darkness.
Over the centuries, this ideology evolved from a mortal music subculture into the dominant creed of the undead. The haunting melodies of goth culture evolved into sacred vampire hymns known as Bloodchants—sombre ballads that celebrate DracuLord’s ascension as the eternal Lord of all vampires and the Father of the Night. During Bloodgothmas, the sacred chants are traditionally sung beneath the decorated Murder Ash Tree, which always stands in the center of town and is decorated with skulls, coffins, and iron chains lit up in yellow and black.
The holiday is meant to resonate with the dark essence of eternal night and instill in vampires the understanding that goth is not a style—it is the lifeblood of vampirism. To question goth is to question the very existence of vampires. And to question the existence of vampires is to question DracuLord and the ashes that gave birth to the contemporary vampire race. Any exhibition of this type of behaviour was considered “Blasphemy of the Night,” a crime that resulted in immediate crucifixion. This gory punishment served as a deterrent to any who dared to question the Lord of the Night, DracuLord.
The belief in Gothic Vampirism was forged during the reign of DracuLord, the forefather of the post-Ash Era. During what became known as “The Burning Stage of Eternity,” a grim time when the earth was engulfed in fire following the annihilation of society as it was known, vampires, surviving mortals, werewolves, giants, and demons fought for sacred land and control. During this time, DracuLord faced his most significant challenges as the Lord of Vampires. Through the searing pain of eternal flames, he summoned discipline and delved into the shadows of ancient cultures, seeking the foundation of a new and final Vampire Renaissance. Upon studying quintillions of cultures from the dawn of the earth to the collapse of modern civilization, he experienced a breakthrough—an epiphany of sorts—goth. Goth was the key to rebuilding vampires into an unstoppable force that would dominate the world!
The medieval ages had been a period of decimation for vampires, where countless were crucified and burned at the stake. The once-thriving population had dwindled to a mere shadow of its former glory, reduced to a scattering of tiny, hidden colonies tucked away in the dark forests and rugged peaks of the Carpathian Mountains that shroud Transylvania. This epiphany freed DracuLord from the eternal flames and marked the beginning of “The Ashes,” signifying the dawning of a new vampire era. The ashes symbolized the remnants of the old DracuLord—the vampire who had burned and suffered to resurrect his race. Thus, this became the meaning of Bloodgothmas: the time in which goth and vampirism were bonded as one, and DracuLord was reborn as the Lord of all Vampires.
Now empowered as the Lord of all Vampires, DracuLord began his rampage, cleansing the planet of all non-vampiric creatures. When his conquest was complete, he penned The Nocturnal Chronicles, the holy book of vampires. In Chapter I: The Ashes, he wrote: “When ash falls within 21 days of Bloodgothmas, this shall be a sign to my children, that one of their citizens shall be entombed to show their devotion to our glorious vampiric society. It shall be seen as a profound offering to ME and the sanctity of goth.”
CHAPTER 2: ENTOMBMENT
Although entombment during Bloodgothmas was prophesied, it had remained an unfulfilled omen for 24,000 moon cycles. Generations passed, and whispers turned to doubt—had the prophecy been nothing but a myth? But then, the unthinkable began… one moon before Bloodgothmas, the skies darkened unnaturally, like a curtain of shadows choking the light. At first, it was barely noticeable—a strange haze drifting in the air. But then the haze thickened, swirling like a restless spirit, and tiny particles fell, delicate as snow but black as sin. Dust became ash, and the ash began to fall in earnest, blanketing the land in a creeping shroud of despair.
It was happening—an Ash Bloodgothmas.
The realization spread through the vampire community like a cold wind, chilling even the oldest among them. Where there was ash, there would be entombment. And where there was entombment, the Grim Reaper would follow. His return was not a quiet rumor but a heavy truth that pressed on every heart. Streets grew restless, voices hushed in dread, as centuries of silence had led them to believe this day would never come. But now it had. The Grim Reaper—ancient and relentless—had returned to fulfill the prophecy, and no vampire could escape his gaze.
To be chosen for entombment meant standing before the Grim Reaper in attire befitting the sacred ritual, prompting every vampire to scramble to find the perfect morbid look. Coffin shops across New Transylvania were overrun, but none more so than The Velvet Fang, known for its pure gothic apparel. Lines stretched into the streets as vampires clawed for funeral gowns, corsets, and black velvet attire designed to radiate eternal despair. The store’s seamstresses struggled to keep up with demand, barely meeting requests for lace cuffs, embroidered veils, and chains of ancient iron. Nobody wanted to look ungoth before the ultimate judge, The Grim Reaper—a figure whose hollow gaze was said to pierce through every layer of pretense, exposing the soul beneath. To appear anything less than a vision of eternal despair and gothic perfection was to risk humiliation or dismissal from the sacred ritual entirely.
Rumours swirled that this year’s entombment might break tradition by selecting a woman, causing a stir within the gothic orthodox Draculordian community. The possibility captivated Xhoanna, a devout believer and self-proclaimed ideal candidate.
She had once aspired to become a Vampire Blood Chanter—a singer of ancient vampire ballads derived from the Goth music genre—performing at elite blood clubs like the Blood Lounge, the most exclusive haven for male vampires in all New Transylvania. For years, her dream had been to serenade the elite with sacred hymns. But as her faith deepened, she experienced a revelation that shook her to the core: her true purpose was not to sing but to serve DracuLord directly, helping forge a society bound to his eternal word.
The path from aspiring performer to bloodwakened DracuLordist—one who has discovered the sacred bloodword of DracuLord—was far from simple, and her journey was marked by hardship and shame. Xhoanna’s fall from grace began during Bloodgothmas week, coinciding with her First Moon Sentence at King Dracula Prep. It was an event she rarely spoke of, one that left her deeply scarred. The idea of being entombed and serving as an eternal servant of DracuLord now burned brighter than ever within her as if it were her final chance to prove herself and restore her pure-blood nature. Yet her shame stemmed from a single catastrophic event: during a random locker inspection, Xhoanna was caught with illegal blood transfer paraphernalia. Acting on a tip from a fellow “convict” at King Dracula Prep, the Moral Night Guard—a secret force established to uphold moral order in New Transylvania—descended upon the students, conducting a meticulous raid.
While most lockers were empty or innocuous, Xhoanna’s was stuffed with IVs, blood bags, IV lines, and forbidden hybrid electric needles designed to locate and pierce the richest veins digitally.
Such devices had been strictly outlawed following the ascendence of The Brothers Dracula to power. Facing the consequences of her actions, Xhoanna was given a stark choice: endure 100 moons in the dreaded Discipline Dungeon (a horrifying place no student ever wanted to find themselves in) or enroll in a course on Vampire Purity Adjustment. She was expelled from her Goth Hymnal Classes as if that weren't enough, shattering her dream of becoming a revered BloodChant Singer. This disgrace unfolded right before Bloodgothmas of her first moon at Dracula Prep. Vilified by her peers and mockingly branded “LeachAnna” (for the fact that 500 leaches were found stashed away in her locker), she was isolated and ridiculed. The morbid joy she once felt while studying the sacred words of the vampires vanished, leaving only despair.
Through the harsh lessons of her punishment, Xhoanna began to see her true path. Singing, she realized, was too light, too devoid of the weight and darkness she craved. As Bloodgothmas approached, she yearned for something more profound—something aligned with the shadows and the eternal teachings of DracuLord. This Ash Bloodgothmas, the first since The Burnings, felt like her destined moment—a sign to sacrifice herself entirely for DracuLord and prove her devotion. The idea of giving herself entirely to HIM filled her with a dark, morbid exhilaration. Confident in her ability to be chosen, she transformed the ridicule of others into fuel for her bloodlust, envisioning the day when they would regret their doubts. She frequently imagined what it might feel like to exist in a suspended state of undeadness, caught between “life” and eternal servitude. With each vision, her fascination deepened, fueling an unrelenting drive and a grim determination to seize her destiny.
Confident she would be chosen for entombment, Xhoanna strode into Gothic Vampire History class wearing a custom black corset from The Velvet Fang, its intricate lacing accentuating her unnervingly pale complexion. Each step she took seemed to echo with purpose, drawing the eyes of her peers and fueling a storm of whispers. Some accused her of using forbidden embalming oils—banned by the Brothers Dracula—to achieve her ghostly glow, while others marvelled at the eerie elegance she exuded. Her obsession with being selected for entombment had become all-consuming, bordering on madness. She spoke of her destiny with an unsettling fervour, leaving her classmates torn between unease and reluctant admiration. Her conviction was undeniable, a force that seemed to cast its shadow over the room.
CHAPTER 3: SHADOWS OF DOUBT AND THE GRIM SELECTION
Meanwhile, her friend Luminița Dimineață—a descendant of the most renowned vampire family in the race’s history—sat quietly in the back of the room, commanding a quiet, unspoken respect. Though she outwardly celebrated Bloodgothmas with the rest, her mind wrestled with secret doubts. To Luminița, goth was not a static creed but an evolving force that could embrace new dimensions of darkness. She even believed werewolves—creatures she found deeply fascinating, though her interest was scandalous—might one day have a place within their shadowy world. Yet, she dared not voice such heresy aloud.
While she cherished many of the traditions of Bloodgothmas, the modern shortage of authentic skulls for Bloodgothmas decorations left her disheartened. The replacements, often cheaply made and needing more pieces of authentic relics such as real bones and skulls, frustrated her deeply. To her, the weight and presence of an original skull embodied the essence of goth—a connection to mortality that could not be faked. The lack of authenticity in such symbols mirrored the larger struggle she felt brewing within herself: a tension between her loyalty to tradition and her yearning for something deeper and more accurate.
Despite her skepticism, Luminița remained tethered to Xhoanna, her only friend in the suffocating world of Bloodgothmas. Even if her fanaticism bordered on lunacy, she was the one constant in her mixed-up, confusing life. Desperation to maintain their bond drove Luminița to accept her eccentricities, even when they teetered on the edge of reason.
As the ashes fell over Brașov, the Grim Reaper descended upon the town. Perched atop the Palace of Ash, his hollow sockets surveyed the chaos below with grim amusement. Vampires bickering and battling over the trivial honour of being named the Blood Mortal Ascendant stirred a twisted glee within him. This ceremony was, to him, just another tedious residency, one that often bored him to the point of wishing for something unimaginable for a being like him—to be alive and mortal. The notion unsettled even the Grim Reaper, whose sole purpose in this plane of existence was death and death alone. In their undead state, vampires were devoid of actual death; thus, they lacked the fear and finality he relished. This absence gnawed at him.
He longed for the days of mortals when his work held an edge of terror and inevitability. He would appear unbidden at the doorsteps of the living to bring them the “good news” of their impending end. The thrill of watching their fragile minds unravel in the face of his presence had been the pinnacle of his existence. But here, among the vampires, death was a hollow concept, an illusion unworthy of his time. Bloodgothmas only exacerbated his disdain. It was a futile, extravagant display of devotion and power, a tradition he found utterly meaningless.
The Grim Reaper had not set foot in Transylvania in several thousand moons, preferring to outsource his duties to lesser bearers of death while he roamed the mortal lands. But he solemnly promised to DracuLord immediately after “The Ashes” to attend this ceremony whenever Bloodgothmas ashes fell. Begrudgingly, he returned, spending his days in monotony, standing in the planning chamber of the Ash Palace, looking at endless pictures of New Transylvania’s vampiric citizens before him. Name after name, picture after picture blurred together: ordinary vampires steeped in the teachings of DracuLord, their fates predictable and unremarkable.
Then suddenly…….a spark, a vampire name and picture jumped out at him…..Xhoanna. She was different; she was mysterious and so morbid. Suddenly, the suffocating monotony of this task became intriguing. Her paler complexion was striking… an exotic feature distinguishing her from the other candidates—and her fiery, almost unhinged dedication intrigued him. He adjusted his arcane lenses to study her case further, and the details only deepened his curiosity. Her rebellious attitude, her fall from grace, and her unrelenting drive to prove herself set her apart from the stagnant conformity of others. In her, he saw a spark of morbid brilliance, a candidate who could disrupt the monotony of vampire society.
His job was done! He lifted the 10,000-kilo slab of stone known as The Blood Ascendant Tablet, slammed it on his desk and, with a skeletal finger, etched her name onto it, sealing the decision. Xhoanna was the one! The Grim Reaper rose, his task complete. The time had come to deliver the message and reveal the chosen one. He descended the winding spiral staircase of the Ash Palace, each step echoing like a death knell as he dragged the sacred stone behind him, its weight carving shallow grooves into the ancient steps. When he reached the square, he raised a skeletal hand and sent a blazing crimson flare into the ashen sky, its fiery glow cutting through the gloom like a bloodstained beacon. The signal was clear: the decision had been made.
CHAPTER 4: FATE AT IMPALER SQUARE
As the signal flared across the sky, the heavens turned pitch black, shrouding the land in an unnatural darkness. Vampires from every corner of the realm descended upon Impaler Square—named in honour of the original Dracula, Vlad the Impaler. To mortals, Vlad Tepes was a figure of ancient Romanian history, infamous for his cruel and merciless treatment of enemies. But to the vampires, he was far more than a mortal ruler; he was an enduring idol, a harbinger of the unyielding strength and terror that defined their kind. His brutal legacy—his stakes, his unrelenting thirst for vengeance—was revered, not merely admired but woven into the fabric of their culture. As the crowd swelled, a feverish frenzy overtook them, each vampire eager to witness the continuation of Vlad’s eternal legacy through the sacred ritual of Bloodgothmas.
The chosen individuals for Eternal Sacrifice were assembled and escorted to the square in shackles. At the square's center, a platform showcased the Blood Ascendant coffin—a terrifying construct of corroded iron and bone—casting an ominous shadow. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the candidates knelt in chains before The Grim Reaper, knowing their destiny would soon be unveiled.
Xhoanna, dressed in her corset and wearing a black widow blood diamond necklace, gazed at the coffin and was swiftly filled with a sense of achievement. She soon imagined herself as the one who would be lying inside, buried beneath 10 meters of mud cement—a unique cement used by mortals in medieval times to prevent any vampire from escaping. It was believed that this, along with a crucifix, guaranteed that no vampire could ever break free.
The ceremony peaked as the Grim Reaper’s assistant, a temporary ghoul tasked with the dirty work, blindfolded the contenders. With their eyes covered, they stood there, anticipating their destiny. The ash thickened and accumulated... This was of no concern to the crowd, who held their breath in anticipation; soon, the wait would end, and the suspense of the first Ash Bloodgothmas in ages would unfold. Xhoanna boldly declared: I am here today to offer myself to our father lord, DracuLord.
The Grim Reaper raised a skeletal hand, commanding silence as the air seemed to freeze. His voice, a hollow rasp that carried the weight of death itself, echoed across the square: “SILENCE! The decision has been made… contenders, prepare for entombment.” A hush fell over the crowd, thick with anticipation, as he turned the ancient stone tablet toward them. For a moment, nothing moved—the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, the name etched into the sacred stone gleamed in the ashen light.
A collective gasp swept across Impaler Square, succeeded by hushed whispers that spread among the crowd. Abruptly, Xhoanna advanced, her eyes burning with a fierce triumph. Raising her arms to the heavens, she shouted, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife: “I was destined for this moment! DracuLord’s word is my forever! My burial will honor goth and the ashes of eternity!” Her shout echoed, resolute and unwavering, as if challenging anyone to doubt her fate.
While the crowd murmured approval, the Ashbearers—the Grim Reaper’s grave diggers and shadowy henchmen—stepped forward with ruthless precision. They bound Xhoanna in heavy iron chains and carved the word “ENTOMBED” into her pale skin, the crimson letters stark against her ghostly complexion. Their movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, as they plunged their spades into the earth, digging a 500-meter-deep grave with uncanny speed. The massive pit yawned before the crowd within minutes, dark and foreboding.
Xhoanna was led to the grotesque coffin, her steps deliberate, her head held high despite the agony etched into her body. The crowd fell silent as she approached the iron and bone masterpiece. Just as she reached the edge and prepared to enter the coffin, a small, trembling voice shattered the stillness.
CHAPTER 5: WHISPERS OF DEFIANCE
Luminița stepped forward, her voice steady but tinged with desperation. “DracuLord is our Goth Father,” she began, her words sharp yet laced with emotion. “Yes, the Nocturnal Chronicles speak of entombment, but not like this. It was meant to be an act of pure devotion, chosen freely, not a competition or spectacle. This ceremony—this frenzy—twists his words into something grotesque. Bloodgothmas was meant to unite us under the beauty of goth and night's sanctity, not tear us apart in a fight for martyrdom.”
She turned to Xhoanna, her expression softening as she continued. “Xhoanna, I know you believe this is your purpose, but entombment was never meant to be a stage. It’s not about proving yourself to the Grim Reaper or anyone else. True devotion isn’t about chains or coffins—it’s about how we carry DracuLord’s word in the darkness of our lives. You’ve already given so much. Why let them strip away what remains of you, all in the name of a ritual that’s been turned into a spectacle?”
Her voice wavered as she looked back at the crowd, her gaze burning with quiet defiance. “Have we forgotten what Bloodgothmas truly stands for? The unification of goth and vampirism, the celebration of our eternal bond to the night? DracuLord didn’t rise from the ashes to see his children bicker over who’s most worthy to be suspended from undeadness. This isn’t devotion—it’s desecration.”
Her words hung in the air like a blade, cutting through the murmurs of approval and challenging the hollow reverence that filled Impaler Square! Luminița’s voice trembled with urgency, each word a desperate plea. She wasn’t just defying tradition—she was fighting to save Xhoanna, even if her friend’s obsession bordered on madness. Unlike the rigid orthodox Draculordian teachings entrenched in Brașov, Luminița’s upbringing in Sinaia, beyond the Transylvanian borders, had been shaped by a gentler form of vampiric devotion. In her childhood, the focus was less on ritualistic sacrifice and more on living in harmony with the dark forces that governed their kind. But here, in the shadow of the Ash Tree, those memories felt like fragments of another life. She clung to those beliefs like a fading ember, but with each passing moon, she thought them slipping further away.
The square erupted into chaos, the murmurs of the crowd transforming into frantic cries and panicked whispers. The Grim Reaper’s skeletal hand trembled as he raised it to silence them, his hollow voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. “The entombment selection ceremony is hereby ceased… until further notice. There will be no decision.” His words hung in the ashen air, heavy with finality. Then, without another glance at the crowd, he leapt from the balcony of the Palace of Ashes, his tattered cloak billowing like a shroud of death. In a single, fluid motion, he seized the ornate coffin and dragged it into the shadows, the screech of iron against stone echoing through the square. Xhoanna stood frozen, her chest heaving with fury, her long black nails curling inward as her dream shattered.
At home, Luminița faced her father’s fury. His face was pale with anger as he loomed over her, his dark eyes burning with a cold, unrelenting judgment. “Your defiance has disgraced this family upon our society!” he spat, his voice echoing through the cavernous room like a death knell. “You do know what this means, don’t you?” He stepped closer, his towering frame casting her into shadow. His voice lowered, each word deliberate, cold and ominous, as he hissed, “You will be branded.”
The room fell silent, the air heavy and suf focating, as if the very walls had absorbed her shame and the solemn echoes of Bloodgothmas itself. The weight of his words pressed on Luminița like the iron chains of the entombment ritual—unyielding and absolute. Her mind raced, a storm of fear and uncertainty. What did he mean by branding? Would it mark her for life, a stain of failure for all to see, haunting her every Bloodgothmas as a reminder of her defiance? Or would it be something worse—something she couldn’t yet fathom?
She dared not ask. Instead, she stood frozen, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. The fate she had tried to save Xhoanna from had felt unimaginable, but now her own loomed before her, dark, suffocating, and inescapable. Is this the price of standing against the shadows?
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