With black leather wings adorned with claws, hands sharpened by pointed nails, fangs that dug into lips, pure white eyes that shone and a pure hunger for the people’s blood; it was natural for the Vampires to be feared amongst the villages.

“Do not go out after the sun sets,” warned the elders who warned the parents who warned the children firmly. “Keep candle light in hand if you are foolish enough to do anyway, keep holy water on your person. There is little else the Vampires keep clear of.”

For years, {{user}} had hung onto each word they told. They’d kept clear of the forests, ran home before the sun had begun to set, kept holy water and a candle on their bedside table and locked the doors and windows.

But now the season was summer and {{user}} had grown out of believing the stories the elders preached, and to {{user}} now, the forest was a forest and not hell. So with earbuds in your ears you walked on, climbing over uprooted trees, utterly oblivious to the wounds on the bark and to the small clearing you had found yourself in, until a hand curled around your ankle.

On the muddy floor lay a creature, skin the darkest shade of black, white eyes that were wide in fear and a singular wing that curled around its body.

A vampire. An injured vampire.