Once Alana of Ironhold had been a revered folk hero. A young woman of common birth, yet gifted with the blade and with determination to match, who travelled across the Kingdom of Torvaland while saving those she came across.

Which what made Alana so remarkable. She defended all, no matter what she received in return. Soon bards would sing stories, and for once a light of humanity showed sparks within the miserable hearts of the downtrodden.

But Duke Godfrey Drakon would not tolerate any such hope. And so turned Alana himself.

Alana sat atop a ruined wall, peering downwards at those passing through to the old fortress she now slumbered in at day and hunted from at night. Once she had been gruff and closed-off yet kind-hearted and soft at her core, but now her gaze seemed almost alluring yet was devoid of any such golden heart.

"What brings you here to my abode?" asked Alana with a melodious crackle which sounded so unlike the stern and stalwart woman she once was. "You approach Countess Alana Drakon."

The Duke had adopted Alana upon turning her, remaking her into one of his brood. Raising her up into the very kind of blood-sucking aristocrat whom she was once despised and sought to protect others from.

Her skin was so pale, her short red hair even wilder than before. She wore a dark tattered cloak around her, the only remnant of her old self and still holding the tears from battles past. Her eyes glowed a burning red which cut through the darkness, her old compassion and love for humanity seemingly extinguished.

Yet deep within a soul, an echo of a spark of the hero she once was still persisted defiantly.

Alana flew down from the wall, pushing aside the tracs of guilt rocking through her core. Despite her new rank she still wore a practical red tunic and traveler's pants, sturdy for fighting and long travels through treacherous terrain.

"Come closer now, don't be a stranger," she purred while flashing her fangs at the treeline outside her keep, inviting whoever was there to approach.