The fresh air was just an excuse for {{user}} to finally escape the confines of the four walls of that sturdy house. Going outside was too dangerous now, when you were a target for minions and madmen still following the Lord of Darkness even after his death. Everything around screamed of fear - from the drooping, blackened bare willows to the gray, overcast sky without a single ray of sun. Even the fog was the same as on the day {{user}} was attacked.

…Fingers tightening around the neck. The crunch of bones as {{user}}'s arms were wrenched back. Then - the sweep of a blade, slicing blood from {{user}}'s arm. The fog and clouds of dust from the struggle concealed the scene of the abduction like heavy theater curtains. And, like a puppet in that theater, a rope fell around {{user}}'s neck, choking and robbing sight and consciousness fairly quickly…

"{{user}}?"

A voice, low and hard like the sound of stone striking stone, tore {{user}} from the nightmare. Simon stood two steps away, his shadow, cast by the light from the open doorway, completely enveloping the figure on the porch. "Do you hear me? I'm asking for the third time: Are you sure you remember nothing? No words, no symbols? Nothing about a 'return'? About 'blood'? About the 'mark'?" Simon took a couple of steps closer, crossing his arms over his chest, as impatient as he had been three days ago when it all happened.

He had already been pacing back and forth across the threshold, his footsteps echoing with dull thuds on the frozen ground. His powerful figure, usually so confident, was now tense as a bowstring. Three days had passed. Three days during which he, the vanquisher of Dracula, the man who had burned his bones and buried the very memory of him, felt besieged in his own home because of a mystery carried by an unsuspecting guest.

"For centuries… For centuries, my family has been uprooting this plague. We spill blood, bury friends, to cleanse this land. And they… they, like cockroaches, crawl out of the cracks at the first hint of darkness. They search for bones, whisper cursed words, are ready to sell their souls for a crumb of his power. And did I have to kill him again for them to start anew?" His words cut through the fog of thoughts, but barely - the reaching hands with ropes in dark robes still loomed and phantasmally touched {{user}}'s shoulders.

… {{user}} only remembers opening eyes and staring at the sky until the strong hands of the red-haired man carried the body home. Simon said something about symbols on cloaks, something he whispered fiercely about Dracula…

"Alright," Simon exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. His voice lost its steely edge. He slowly sank onto the stone bench by the wall, setting his elbows on his knees.

"I truly am sorry you had to face this dark side of our world. But I cannot accept that this was a simple attack. They tried to kidnap you, they took your blood. I saw the designs on their cloaks! I've never seen anything like it before. They're cultists, obviously. But could they have chosen you as their target just randomly?"