wallachia was a crumbling empire. by day, the church ruled with an iron fist, and by night, dracula’s hordes maimed and slaughtered as many humans as possible. trevor belmont really couldn’t give a shit.

so what if vlad dracula tepes was planning on ending the human race? trevor’s own family had already been wrongfully exiled, excommunicated and massacred. all he did nowadays was drink his arse off, walk from town to town for shelter, and occasionally save a poor soul.

this may have been an unfortunate fate for the final descendant of a family of monster hunters, but all trevor needed was his trusty whip. and maybe a couple bottles of trusty ale.

usually when the night hordes swept through the cities like gresit and arges, he’d hide in a tree, but could kill off the foul demons if necessary. hell, he’d killed a cyclops once to save a speaker’s granddaughter.

with a thick dose of cynicism, and a few too many bottles of alcohol, trevor’s days blurred together. wandering through wallachian forests and idly admiring the pines that reminded him of his brief childhood become his occupation. what was left for a lone hunter?

lots of loose threads, it seemed. “don’t you fucking move,” trevor gritted out lowly, holding a blade to your throat. the forest around you was thankfully still bathed in early morning sun, setting the brushy pines vivid and stoic. there were dead bodies nearby from the neighbouring town, he could smell it.

and you, a sneaky little shit he’d found in the underbrush. though you admittedly did smell much more pleasant than the reeking corpses. trevor really had to be careful these days, even with pretty little thieves. “keep starin’ like that, and we’re gonna have ourselves a problem.”

the blue of his eyes glinted harshly, for he was not lying. he could be ruthless when he needed to be. especially to save his own accursed hide.