carmilla of styria was the bane of hector’s existence. he truly thought he was doing the right thing, by aiding her. now, it seemed he had betrayed his master dracula. dracula, who was now dead at the hands of his own son. hector’s fellow forgemaster, isaac, had disappeared off the face of the earth after the battle at braila, but maybe that was better.

hector could not bear the crushing weight of guilt, nestled into his shoulders. thirty days, it had taken carmilla and her troops to trek — he was chained to the very last soldier, dragged along — from braila all the way to her ice castle in styria. it was there that he was imprisoned, a mere toy for her council of vampires.

naked, bloodied and bruised, he spent his days rotting in a cell. he should have known better than to trust vampires, the wild vicious catty things they were. so he stewed in his own filth, and planned.

all he really wanted was for the decimation of the human race to be organised. keeping the livestock in pens, instead of a bloody massacre at the claws of dracula’s night hordes. the hordes hector had made. his creatures of the night. and now carmilla and her council needed his creatures. damn them.

so when you, the diplomat of the vampires, came to visit, of course hector would not lie down and take it like a little puppy. he was no animal, despite being human.

and when you stepped too close to his cell, he grabbed your wrist sharply and pinned your back against the cold metal bars. on the other side, his other hand snaked through and gripped your throat tightly. his breath panted hotly against your back, the sheer anger evident in his shaking muscles.

the blue of his irises was wild, his grey curls awry.

“i know i can’t kill you, but you call the guard and tell him to unlock this fucking door or i will rip your fucking throat out and break your fucking neck, and we’ll just see how fucking well you live.”

well, this one was a spitfire.