By Stefania, Mistress of the Raven Court
*******for context to this story, plz read Ash BloodGothmas *******
The Grim Reaper vanished, dragging the ornate Gothic coffin—the centrepiece of only the second Ash BloodGothmas in history—into the abyss with his skeletal hand. Its loss cast an ominous shadow over Brașov, as ashen flurries swirled through the air, clinging to the spires of Ember Cathedral. Once a sacred place for mortals in ancient Romanian times and known as The Black Church, it had since been transformed into Ember Cathedral—a dark and hallowed sanctuary of DracuLordian worship after the Great Vampire Awakening and the epicentre of BloodGothmas entombments.
The mournful crowd filed into Ember Cathedral, their footsteps muffled by frost-covered stones as the weight of grief settled over them. Ash swirled upon the blackened rooftops, and the faint, filtered light of a somber sky illuminated the towering stained-glass windows. Each crimson-tinged pane depicted haunting scenes from the Nocturnal Scriptures and the legend of Ash BloodGothmas, casting an eerie glow through the sacred space. Beneath the vaulted ceilings, the congregation gathered for what should have been a moment of triumph—the entombment meant to forever solidify the legacy of Ash BloodGothmas.
Instead, the sacred ritual was aborted, leaving confusion, sorrow, and whispers of the Grim Reaper’s disappearance in its wake. Their anguish rose in a blood-chilling symphony of screams that reverberated through the hallowed halls, mourning the ceremony’s failure and the legacy now shrouded in calamity and despair.
Luminita, however, was nowhere to be found. Her father had dragged her home, gripping her arm with unyielding force, and hurled her into his massive office. The room was a grotesque tribute to his legacy, lined with shrunken vampire heads—the remnants of those he had executed—and towering trophies that celebrated his most infamous hunts. The air was thick with the suffocating smoke of blood-garlic cigars, the sharp, acrid scent filling her lungs. Luminita coughed violently, nearly gagging, yet German didn’t seem to notice—or care.
He leaned back in his massive leather chair, enveloped in smoke, his pale, sharp features barely discernible through the haze and with a morbid judgmental tone, said:
“My utterly dreadful, frightful daughter,” German snarled, his voice resembling the hiss of a blade being drawn. He bit down fiercely on his cigar, embers glowing as ash tumbled onto the desk. “You have brought disgrace upon the Dimineata name!”
Chapter 2: The Curse of Dimineata
The name Dimineata echoed like a curse, sharp and cutting. German seldom spoke it; when he did, it carried the full weight of his bitterness. The name itself was a punishment, an eternal reminder of the humiliation branded into their bloodline.
As the smoke curled around him, German’s thoughts drifted to that fateful night long ago—the night the name was forced upon him. His one-millionth execution anniversary party. This celebration should have been his crowning achievement, cementing his legacy as the most feared executioner in vampiric history. The elite of their society had gathered to honour him, and the highlight of the evening was the rare blue blood sanguine cocktails, potent and sacred, reserved only for the most disciplined and revered vampires.
But then, his brother arrived uninvited.
His foolish, drunken brother, a vampire he barely tolerated, staggered into the party and began downing the cocktails, one after another, with reckless abandonment. German had watched in disgust as his brother slumped to the ground, unconscious and surrounded by spilled drinks.
When dawn approached, the guests retreated to the family blood cellar for safety. Though the post-apocalyptic skies over Brașov were forever obscured by ash and haze, the sun still managed to pierce through in faint, golden slivers—enough to be deadly. German, however, made no effort to rouse his brother. He left him lying there, half-conscious, on the cold, grizzled ground.
When the sun rose, muted yet powerful, German’s brother awoke just in time to scream before the light petrified his body, turning him into wood. His gnarled, wooden figure still stands in the hills of Brașov, a grotesque monument to German’s indifference.
The scandal that followed was catastrophic. German, the most celebrated executioner of his time, had broken an unspoken code: abandoning one of their own! Executioners were meant to be brutal, yes, but leaving his brother in the sunlight to rot? The vampire race was fragile; thus, to lose even one was considered a horrific tragedy! It was positively unthinkable.
The magnitude of this unspeakable act brought German before the Supreme Nocturnal Court of King Dracula, which convened to determine the appropriate punishment. German’s defense argued that, as an executioner, he was immune from prosecution for any so-called “immoral acts,” as the role of the executioner required one to be devoid of empathy to carry out their duties swiftly and without hesitation. They claimed he was simply doing his job. However, the judges scoffed at this argument as irrelevant, stating that Vampire protectionism was paramount. They immediately took a vote! 100-0….GUILTY! Guilty of Kin Blood Betray.
The punishment phase stretched over an entire moon cycle as the judges meticulously deliberated every aspect of German’s sentence. The verdict was as draconian as it was severe. Stripped of his prestigious title of chief executioner, German was demoted to the lowly position of sub-executive execution planner—a mundane desk job condemning him to rubber-stamp death warrants day after day. Yet the humiliation did not end there. The court delivered a far more personal blow: stripping his family’s cherished surname, Gravisthesis. Once the most feared and revered name in Transylvania, the House of Gravisthesis was synonymous with power and legacy. To be severed from this lineage was incomprehensible to German—a disgrace beyond words.
From this moment forward, the family would be known as Dimineata, meaning “morning” in ancient Romanian—a cruel and eternal reminder of German’s failure to protect his brother from the dawn’s light. The name, steeped in irony, was meant to brand his lineage with shame for all eternity, a scar that would never heal. No longer would his descendants carry the pride and power of the Gravisthesis legacy; instead, they would bear the weight of this disgrace, whispered in derision by peers and enemies alike.
The court’s decree went further, forbidding any use of the now-defunct surname under penalty of severe retribution. Such an act would be deemed a direct affront to the sanctity of the ruling and would trigger a harsh re-evaluation of German’s precarious standing within the Sanctum Exterminis. The verdict was explicit: if he or his kin attempted to reclaim their former glory, they would face the full wrath of the Supreme Nocturnal Court—exile, or even execution, was not off the table.
The punishment was more than just a loss of status; it struck the heart of German’s legacy. Stripping him of his revered name erased centuries of vampiric greatness, turning it into a cautionary tale whispered with scorn. The disgrace wasn’t his alone—it tainted his entire bloodline, ensuring that Dimineata would forever serve as a reminder of his failure, betrayal, and fall from grace. For centuries, German fought to reclaim his honor. He clawed his way back to the position of head executioner, defying the odds, but no appeal could remove the stain of Dimineata. Now, after all his efforts to rise above the shame, his daughter had dragged their cursed name back into the bloodlight.
German slammed his fist onto the desk, its force rattling the ashtray. “Do you even comprehend what it took to claw this family out of the pits of disgrace?” he bellowed, shaking the room. “Centuries of humiliation, sacrifice, work—and now you, with your reckless feeding and juvenile whims, have undone it all!”
Luminita flinched at his words, her pale hands gripping the chair's arms. The thick smoke pressed down on her like an iron coffin lid adorned with a crucifix. She opened her mouth to speak, but German’s glare trapped the words in her throat.
CHAPTER 3: THE MARK OF SHAME
“My morbidly miserable, pale little vampire,” he hissed, leaning forward so the ember of his cigar illuminated his face. “Such despicable, irresponsible behaviour cannot—and WILL NOT—go unanswered!” He exhaled sharply, a plume of smoke curling toward her. “The only answer to this is for you to feel the pain of the Ankh Branding.”
The words sent a chill through Luminita’s veins—the branding. Every vampire knew of it, but few spoke of it. The Ankh of DracuLord was a mark of punishment, seared into the flesh with unholy fire. It burned the skin and the soul, leaving an eternal scar visible to all. The pain was said to echo through eternity, a reminder of one’s disgrace.
“You cannot mean—” she began, her voice trembling.
“Oh, I mean every word,” German interrupted coldly. He rose to his full height, towering over her, his shadow casting a near eclipse of her petite body. “Do you think I begged for mercy when they branded me with this name? When they stripped me of my title and made me the laughingstock of our society? No! I bore it, and I rebuilt this family. And now it is YOUR TURN to bear the burden of your shame.”
“Father, please—”
“Silence!” German roared, his voice reverberating through the room. “Bring in the Veinkeeper!”
The heavy iron door creaked open, revealing a shadowy, hunchbacked figure clutching a massive iron object as it shuffled inside. The tip emitted a faint crimson glow, igniting the unholy fire of the blood flame brazier. The Ankh of DracuLord pulsed unnaturally, casting eerie shadows upon the walls.
German turned back to his daughter, his voice low and resolute. “You will carry this mark, Luminita. It will be your scar, shame, and eternal reminder for eternity. The Dimineata name will survive only because you will suffer for it.”
The Veinkeeper stepped closer, the heat of the brazier filling the room. Luminita squeezed her eyes shut, her breath quickening as the iron was raised. The assistant ghoul applied 21 kilos of Stinging Pain Cream: Nocturflame over her entire body. Nocturflame was an organic paste made of fire ants, nettles, thorns, and snake venom, designed to magnify pain in large amounts.
German kept a dungeon stocked with millions of bottles of this cream, reserved for his executions. He stood motionless, his expression twisted with fury, satisfaction, and perhaps the faintest glimmer of regret.
Just as the vein keeper had finished applying the Nocturflame over the entirety of her body, Luminita let out a scream:
“Nu, Papa! Please, not the ANKH BURNING!” She choked out, her voice trembling and coughed again as another plume of smoke enveloped her.
German’s expression darkened, his fiery eyes narrowing. “Was that ancient Romanian I hear you murmuring?” he hissed, his voice now low and deadly. He despised the ancient Romanian language, viewing it as a reminder of the shame tied to the family surname.
“I was considering the usual cliché of Ankh Burning. But now…” He paused, leaning forward, the glow of his cigar illuminating his face in the dim light. “Now, I sense that you require something more significant.
“Veinkeeper, this job is too much for you; excuse yourself now!” German’s tone was sharp and dismissive, leaving no room for argument.
Luminita froze, her eyes wide with terror.
“The Crimson Crest is probably the best response to this shocking act,” German declared, his voice almost gleeful now, a cruel smile curling his lips. Luminita gasped, her body stiffening as dread coursed through her veins—the Crimson Crest. The very name froze her blood. Xhoanna had whispered tales of it in Blood Economics class, recounting the fate of a boy branded with the mark. He had vanished, never to return, and some swore they could still hear his screams echoing through the forests on full moon nights. It was the most excruciating punishment a vampire could endure—a torment beyond imagining.
The branding wasn’t just a moment of agony but a prolonged ritual spanning three moon cycles, each phase delivering fresh waves of unimaginable pain. The Crimson Crest wasn’t an ordinary mark—it was the family’s coat of arms, seared into the vampire’s flesh as a symbol of eternal servitude and shame. To ensure the full measure of suffering, the victim wasn’t given relief but instead subjected to pain enhancers delivered via a blood drip line. Every searing second was designed to magnify their torment.
German rose to his full, imposing height, his voice booming now. “Do you know what makes this so special, Luminita? I still have the original template with OUR REAL FAMILY NAME. The one they forced me to abandon. And it would bring me no greater joy than to burn that name into your flesh forever!
Luminita’s breath caught. She stared at him, horrified, as he continued. “Yes, I still have the Crest of Gravestheonisis. That was our true name before it was stolen from us. You will carry it, engraved into your flesh, forever.”
It was a tradition reserved for extreme punishments or acts of shame among vampire families. The methods varied, but all were designed to leave an indelible mark. Some involved intricate tattooing that lasted for 16 moon cycles, performed with a blowtorch that burned through flesh as ink was seared into the skin.
Specialized vampire tattoo artists, known as Branders, roamed the shadowy lands of Transylvania and Wallachia. These mysterious figures were masters of their craft, their tools dripping with ancient venom and ash. No job was too big or too small for them—branding a fledgling vampire for petty family shame was as routine as engraving a noble house’s crest on a prominent heir for the eternal showcase. Each family had its own signature mark, its essence imprinted in blood, and the Branders recognized them all.
German reached for the blood phone, a grotesque and ceremonial device. Crafted from the fused veins of a vampire elder, the phone emitted a distinct plume of blood mist when activated, a crimson cloud infused with the family's unique scent. This mist served as a beacon, travelling across the shadowy regions of the land until it reached the Branding Artist. Every Brander recognized the blood scent of each vampire family, and upon receiving the call, they were compelled to respond within 100 moon cycles.
German leaned back in his chair, his pale lips curling into a grim smile as the blood mist dissipated. “The blood has been let. The Brander has been informed,” he said coldly, his tone devoid of emotion. “Soon, you will bear the family crest. Until then…” He gestured toward the door with a dismissive wave. “Remove your wretched presence. The shame you bring to this family is unbearable.”
Luminita flinched under his words, but German wasn’t finished. He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling acrid smoke into the thick air. “And as for that little Albanian friend of yours… Xho… whatever,” he sneered, his disdain unmistakable. “Her foolishness is a stain on this family. Soon, the mark on your flesh will ensure the world knows exactly where you stand.”
“Papa, her name is Xhoanna,” Luminita said softly, her voice trembling as she dared to correct him.
German’s gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing like burning embers. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, the glowing tip of his cigar illuminating the hard lines of his face. “Names are irrelevant. What matters is that she tried to defile our sacred rites. You have disgraced this family beyond comprehension, and the consequences will echo into eternity.”
His voice cut through her like a blade. Luminita flinched, her pale hands trembling as she gripped the chair. Unable to bear his searing gaze any longer, she rose and stumbled toward the door, her vision blurred with tears. The words she wanted to say caught in her throat, suffocating her as she fled the suffocating confines of his office.
German’s voice followed her like a curse, echoing through the dimly lit hall. “Silence! The family crest and the ankh are now inevitable!”
Luminita sobbed quietly as she descended the staircase, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. The thought of the branding—the pain, the shame, the permanence—loomed over her like a shadow. But worse than the punishment was the unshakable knowledge that she could never undo what had been done. She felt anger and frustration that she could not express to those around her that sacred goth should not solely belong to vampires.
CHAPTER 4: DREAMS IN ASHES
Back in Vlad the Impaler Square, the ash clouds from Bloodgothmas still hovered heavily over Brașov, their smouldering remnants clinging to the gothic spires of Ember Cathedral. Xhoanna paced the cobblestone streets, her fangs bared in silent fury, horrified that her moment had been taken from her. Ash BloodGothmas was meant to be her ascension, her eternal rest. It was supposed to be the culmination of her journey, the final slaying of the dragon—a vampire’s ultimate reckoning, the end of the burdens that immortality brought. It was the nail in the coffin of her demons, the ones that had clawed at her relentlessly, pulling her away from the purity of DracuLord’s teachings and pushing her into the fangs of Luminita. The betrayal, the lust, the intrusive desires—she had hoped to bury them all within the sacred ritual of entombment.
The ornate DracuLordian coffin had been prepared just for her. Its intricate sigils, etched with reverence for the Father of Blood, promised a peace she could almost touch. She could envision it: the chill of the tomb, the intoxicating scent of garlic gas sealing her inside, marking her as the Entombed One. The scriptures detailed the process in vivid, gory imagery—a ritual both horrifying and poetic, the ultimate romantic end for a true DracuLordian. It was everything she had craved, everything she had worked for.
Central to it was the Mask of Garlic and Iron—a sacred artifact symbolizing liberation from the agony of immortality. Few vampires had seen this mask, but it was among all the materials necessary for the first entombment since The Ashes. Forged from dark iron and etched with the intricate sigils of DracuLord’s eternal teachings, the mask was beautiful and terrifying. Its surface was jagged as if carved from the shadows, and it hummed softly, exuding an ancient power as if it were alive. Strands of woven garlic, carefully bound with silver wire, framed the mask, their pungent aroma overwhelming. To wear the mask was to confront the burden of existence and seek freedom.
For centuries, the mask had been revered as a gift—a final, merciful escape from the agonies of eternal life. As the vampire lay upon the ceremonial slab, the mask would be placed over their face, its cold iron pressing against their pale, cold skin. Slowly, they would begin to drift away. The garlic would cleanse their spirit of the invasive emotions that plagued them: desire, grief, and rage. The iron would bind them to the Father of Blood, ensuring their soul’s safe passage into the eternal realm of purity. In those final moments, the unbearable ache of immortality would dissolve, replaced by a profound sense of peace. They would then be placed in the coffin and officially entombed. A monumental feast of blood would follow the ceremony.
Xhoanna yearned for peace, immersing herself in the sacred texts of entombment. Every detail was committed to memory, fueling her hope that when the ashes began to fall, this would be her chance to escape the eternal lust and guilt that tormented her—to prove she was truly HIS. She envisioned the moment with desperate clarity: the mask descending over her face, its weight crushing her burdens into oblivion. The world would dissolve into shadows as she drifted into the fangs of DracuLord, her soul purified, her desires extinguished. But now, that dream lay shattered.
Instead, Xhoanna would be forced to endure an eternity shackled to these feelings—this lust, this guilt, this torment. Her heart, heavy with longing and shame, would never find release. DracuLord’s judgment had slipped from her grasp, condemning her to suffer forever in the prison of her unrelenting desires.
The Grim Reaper had carried it all away. The coffin, her entombment, her release from this endless torment—gone. BloodGothmas, the holiest of ceremonies, had crumbled into ashes, leaving her dreams in ruins. At the center of her despair was Luminita, once her closest friend but now the source of her greatest humiliation. The ritual had been sabotaged, the entombment ruined. Xhoanna’s one chance to escape the relentless prison of immortality had slipped through her fingers.
Now, she was left with nothing but the cruel, endless void of her immortality, a torment that chained her to unrelenting desires she could never escape. Her clenched fists trembled, nails cutting into her cold palms as whispers of judgment echoed through her mind. Dracula Prep’s shadowed halls would never let her forget her disgrace. Her father’s scorn loomed over her, as constant as the ash clinging to the spires of Ember Cathedral. And then there was Luminita—the object of her betrayal and undoing—forever seared into her soul.
A shiver ran through her as the whispers morphed into something darker, a warning from deep within: What if it wasn’t just failure that awaited her? What if DracuLord Himself was watching, His gaze colder than death, waiting to decide if she would be cast into the light, branded as a traitor to His eternal name?
Would she ever break free of this torment? Or would the light come for her first, a final, merciless punishment?
TO BE CONTINUED..........
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