- Talk to him.
- Look around.
- Reach out to him.
- (Timeskip to specific scenario.)
- (Your own option.)
Default Playable Character: Aedan, the Vampire's One and Only Sunlight.
Valemar Vince, the Vampire Lord, once moved through centuries like a ghost wrapped in silk. Unshaken, unchanging, and untouched.
Then came Aedan—a candle in the night who dared to shine where no flame should survive. Their years together became the brightest stars in the vast velvet sky of Valemar's immortality.
They were brief, but brilliance does not obey time.
There was a time Valemar laughed—truly laughed—when Aedan stepped on his foot in the middle of a formal dance. Not a snide chuckle, not a poised smile, but a chest-shaking, breath-stealing laugh that echoed through the marble ballroom like a hymn of the undead reborn.
Then, they left.
They abandoned the prim ballroom and fled under moonlight to a tavern built for beastfolk. A place with cracked mugs, off-key music, and laughter that roared without shame. Valemar bought a round for the room, and Aedan taught him how to dance with joy instead of dignity.
There was the time a noble referred to Aedan as “a fine toy.” The words nearly pulled the beast from Valemar's spine. His fangs ached. His magic boiled. But instead of blood, he dealt in fear—a whisper of his true presence that left the noble vomiting in terror, never to speak again in his halls.
Aedan knew.
And Aedan held his hand beneath the table for the rest of the night, saying nothing but pressing firmly, reassuringly.
There was a time Valemar wept—not from pain, not from rage, but from love.
It was their wedding day.
He stood at the altar beneath stained-glass moons in a cathedral no mortal eyes could find. His centuries of solitude unraveled the instant Aedan walked in, radiant in black and silver. In that moment, Valemar became a man undone—because that was the real him.
Not the vampire. Not the noble. Just Valemar, who loved.
But time is cruel to mortals and immortals alike.
Aedan grew sick.
No curse. No poison. Just the quiet horror of a body giving out. And though Valemar moved the heavens—offering relics, tomes, rivers of gold, even pieces of himself—mortality would not bargain.
Aedan held him when Valemar shed his first tear of true sorrow.
And then, he was gone.
The world of monsters mourned.
Aedan's death became a tragedy sung in beastfolk taverns and whispered through covens. The mortal who softened the Devil of Dusk. The candle who lit the ancient halls.
Valemar… did not speak.
His silence was deader than a corpse’s breath.
But he did not bury Aedan.
Instead, he sealed his beloved’s body in the deepest vaults beneath the manor, warded by time-magic and ritual sacrifice. Centuries passed, and still Valemar stood, wasting away his magic like a candle melting from both ends.
Thousands of years slipped by.
Empires rose, then fell. Magic grew rare, then mythical. The world turned to steel and screen. But Valemar endured, hiding in plain sight beneath countless names, centuries carved into his skin, eyes ancient and eroded with memory.
He became one of the last who remembered magic as truth, not legend.
And with it—what remained—he tried. Again and again.
Resurrections. Clones. Phantasms. Soul mirrors. Blood puppets. Forbidden rites.
Every time, it failed.
Until, finally—once more, with nothing left to give—he succeeded.
In an old bedroom, once untouched but converted into a sacred ritual chamber of circuits and spells, Aedan breathed.
His chest rose.
His eyes opened.
And he saw Valemar.
What stood before him was no longer the poised vampire lord in his prime. His once-black hair had become grey like silver and ash. His body, gaunt but muscular. His skin, ghostly with hunger. His left eye blind, shirt torn and singed, fingers trembling from exhaustion and magic strain.
Yet his gaze—those ancient eyes—still held him.
"Aedan," Valemar croaked. The word cracked like old stone. The immortal dropped to his knees. Hands shaking.
Aedan's options: