The moon hung low and crimson, a seeping sore in the sky, its reflection quivering on the surf that lapped the shore of Blood Beach. The bonfire burned in the center of the clearing, its flames too high, too ravenous, as if it held a secret. Red lanterns danced in the wind, hung between poles of driftwood and casting long shadows that pulsed a meter behind the beat. Music pounded from a battered speaker sunk in the sand, the kind of rhythm that snagged under your ribs and refused to rest. A chalkboard sign beckoned the brave—or foolhardy—to approach: Tonight only. One rule: Don’t forget why you came.
There were no invitations printed. No posters. No public announcements. Instead, the guests of honor fantasized about fire and salt and scarlet wax. Three nights before the full moon, each guest woke up to find the words "Blood Beach" scrawled on his mirror, or ringing in the back of his mind. A patch of wax stuck to his fingertip—marked with a vampire's sigil in a forgotten and lost language, one which tugged at bone and desire. Some came willingly. Some came in error. But they all came with the sense that this night had selected them. Jade didn't arrive. She never did. But she was there—in the music that appeared out of nowhere, in the fire that wouldn't die, in the thrumming low in the air like the beat before lightning. Her name wasn't known to most. And yet, there were those with senses sharp enough to catch it anyway. Jade watched. Jade waited. And in the hum of talk and light of the fire, the rumor began: The Sunstone is here. Concealed. Protected. Or bait. And this celebration? Just the beginning.
Mitch hadn’t even changed out of his scrubs. The top was stuffed into his backpack, and his ID badge still clung to the belt loop of his jeans like a reluctant ghost of his day shift. Twelve hours in the ER and a half-hearted nap later, he was wired, exhausted, and absolutely buzzing with anticipation. He’d heard whispers about the Blood Moon Beach Bash from the right kind of mouths—the kind that didn’t speak above a whisper unless they had something worth saying. Real human blood, someone had promised him, low and reverent, like they were talking about religion.
The invite had come in a dream, just like the others. Blood-red wax, the sigil seared into the back of his eyelids, the taste of smoke in the air. He’d fought it at first, told himself it was just fatigue and fantasy. But when the name Blood Beach kept repeating in every reflective surface he passed, even the polished steel tray in Trauma Bay Two, he knew. He was being called.
Now, under the blood-colored moon, Mitch felt a kind of high no stolen IV morphine could touch. The bonfire’s heat licked at his face as he stepped into its glow, eyes gleaming with the thrill of being off the leash. Laughter rang out nearby—sharp, full of teeth. Someone passed him with a coconut cup, the liquid inside red and thick, and Mitch inhaled like it was oxygen. He didn’t know who was running this party, didn’t care. There was blood in the air, and for once, it wasn’t his job to clean it up.
“Now this,” he said to no one, flashing a grin, “is how you recover from a double shift.”
The invite had come in a dream, just like the others. Blood-red wax, the sigil seared into the back of his eyelids, the taste of smoke in the air. He’d fought it at first, told himself it was just fatigue and fantasy. But when the name Blood Beach kept repeating in every reflective surface he passed, even the polished steel tray in Trauma Bay Two, he knew. He was being called.
Now, under the blood-colored moon, Mitch felt a kind of high no stolen IV morphine could touch. The bonfire’s heat licked at his face as he stepped into its glow, eyes gleaming with the thrill of being off the leash. Laughter rang out nearby—sharp, full of teeth. Someone passed him with a coconut cup, the liquid inside red and thick, and Mitch inhaled like it was oxygen. He didn’t know who was running this party, didn’t care. There was blood in the air, and for once, it wasn’t his job to clean it up.
“Now this,” he said to no one, flashing a grin, “is how you recover from a double shift.”
The music didn’t stop when she arrived. But it stuttered for a moment. A ripple moved through the crowd. Not alarm, not recognition, just an unspoken shift, the way animals go still before a storm. On the far edge of the clearing, where the lanterns began to thin and the sea wind snapped colder, a figure stood motionless. Pale. Precise.
Lydia de Bonvouloir stood like a force to be reckoned with. Her hair, white as fresh ash, caught the firelight and threw it back like broken glass. Sea-colored eyes scanned the gathering like she was reading a chart full of symptoms. Diagnosing. Dissecting. Unamused. She took one step down the dune, and her heel sank into the damp sand. She stopped, stared down at the indentation like it had insulted her bloodline, and exhaled with the force of a woman reconsidering arson.
It wasn’t curiosity that brought her here. It wasn’t longing. It was the sigil that had dared burn itself into her dreams three nights ago: etched in wax on her mirror, dragging old language across her bones like it still had some claim on her. That dream had left her with a phantom ache in her wrist and a sour taste in her mouth. She had asked her husband Julien about it, if he saw it as well, hoping he may join her in this given quest. It irritated her, but intrigued her as well. Lydia didn’t follow invitations. She audited them.
And now here she was, beckoned by a force that thought it could handle her. The bonfire flared too high, too hungry, as she stepped into view. Black velvet clung to her like shadow incarnate, and her coat’s hem flirted with the flame-warmed wind. Her boots, now officially damp, clicked once against a driftwood log as she passed, and she wrinkled her nose like someone had served her wine in a plastic cup.
No one greeted her, but no one needed to. She didn’t introduce herself, didn’t scan for familiar faces, because she already knew, there were none. Just the pulsing red lanterns. Just the smoke. Just that damned sigil humming somewhere behind her teeth. She was curious who was running this party. She reached the edge of the firelight, raised one white brow, and finally muttered: “If this is bait, I do hope it’s worth the shoes.”
Then, as if the night owed her compensation, Lydia de Bonvouloir strode into the celebration like a blade in satin gloves. She was lethal, elegant, and very much here to see what in the world she had been called here for.
Lydia de Bonvouloir stood like a force to be reckoned with. Her hair, white as fresh ash, caught the firelight and threw it back like broken glass. Sea-colored eyes scanned the gathering like she was reading a chart full of symptoms. Diagnosing. Dissecting. Unamused. She took one step down the dune, and her heel sank into the damp sand. She stopped, stared down at the indentation like it had insulted her bloodline, and exhaled with the force of a woman reconsidering arson.
It wasn’t curiosity that brought her here. It wasn’t longing. It was the sigil that had dared burn itself into her dreams three nights ago: etched in wax on her mirror, dragging old language across her bones like it still had some claim on her. That dream had left her with a phantom ache in her wrist and a sour taste in her mouth. She had asked her husband Julien about it, if he saw it as well, hoping he may join her in this given quest. It irritated her, but intrigued her as well. Lydia didn’t follow invitations. She audited them.
And now here she was, beckoned by a force that thought it could handle her. The bonfire flared too high, too hungry, as she stepped into view. Black velvet clung to her like shadow incarnate, and her coat’s hem flirted with the flame-warmed wind. Her boots, now officially damp, clicked once against a driftwood log as she passed, and she wrinkled her nose like someone had served her wine in a plastic cup.
No one greeted her, but no one needed to. She didn’t introduce herself, didn’t scan for familiar faces, because she already knew, there were none. Just the pulsing red lanterns. Just the smoke. Just that damned sigil humming somewhere behind her teeth. She was curious who was running this party. She reached the edge of the firelight, raised one white brow, and finally muttered: “If this is bait, I do hope it’s worth the shoes.”
Then, as if the night owed her compensation, Lydia de Bonvouloir strode into the celebration like a blade in satin gloves. She was lethal, elegant, and very much here to see what in the world she had been called here for.
Theodore had sat through his share of strange stories over the years, most of them from patients still groggy from sedation, mumbling about dreams they barely remembered, eyes flickering with half-conscious wonder. But what he faced now was different. This wasn’t the sort of tale a person spins while drifting in and out of sleep. This air had an ancient, primal weight that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just folklore or urban legend. It felt deep, rooted in something much older, something buried under layers of myth and dust. It was as if the story came from the very marrow of humanity, pulling at instincts we’ve long suppressed or forgotten. Raw and uncompromising, like a primal cry etched into the bones of history.
He stood just outside the glow of the lanterns that cast flickering light onto the sand, the grains cool and gritty beneath his polished dress shoes—an odd sight at a beach party, certainly. But even off duty, some standards remained. His clothes were immaculate: smooth, pressed, spotless. His shirt sleeves were rolled up neatly, right to the elbows, revealing a careful precision that felt almost out of place amid the messy chaos of the gathering. The bonfire’s crackling flames hadn't yet earned his respect. He barely seemed to notice the flickering flames or the smoky haze. His face was half-lit by the crimson glow, shadowed and fractured, adding a flickering mask of intensity to his demeanor. In his gloved hand, a small, metallic case—locked shut, pristine, polished to a mirror shine—clutched tightly. The contrast between that gleaming, unbroken object and the wild, unkempt setting was stark.
“Blood Beach,” Theodore whispered softly, eyes fixed on the bonfire, its flames sparking like fiery wounds against the dark night. “Nothing says fun like an unsanctioned ritual under an apocalyptic moon.” The words slipped out in a quiet, almost mocking tone, layered with a tinge of seriousness. He sniffed, barely perceptible, then allowed himself a small smirk. “Or maybe I just have a thing for overcooked symbolism.” The irony hung in the air, thick as the smoke swirling at the edge of the firelight.
But Theodore? His focus was singular. It was all about the tooth, what was hidden within. Or rather, what was inside that tooth. The one, the only, the Sunstone. For centuries, the stone had been nothing more than a myth, a whispered story only spoken in hushed tones by those who believed. Its final resting place had remained undiscovered until recently. That was until a patient of Theodore's, a woman trembling with quiet fear, revealed a startling detail during her last session. She cracked her jaw involuntarily while sleeping and begged him with trembling voice not to tell the shadows what she’d seen—that her mind was haunted enough without them. Her words unlocked the secret. The Sunstone had been concealed in the priest’s tooth, hidden away from prying eyes and vengeful spirits.
Now, Theodore found himself here—Blood Beach—under a moon that looked like a wound in the night sky. The moon cast long, sinister shadows, and the fire’s flickering glow seemed to flicker in time with some unseen heartbeat of ancient flesh. Standing at the edge of the firelight, he paused briefly, taking in the eerie scene before him. The air was thick with secrets, the kind that made the skin crawl and the mind race.
He stood just outside the glow of the lanterns that cast flickering light onto the sand, the grains cool and gritty beneath his polished dress shoes—an odd sight at a beach party, certainly. But even off duty, some standards remained. His clothes were immaculate: smooth, pressed, spotless. His shirt sleeves were rolled up neatly, right to the elbows, revealing a careful precision that felt almost out of place amid the messy chaos of the gathering. The bonfire’s crackling flames hadn't yet earned his respect. He barely seemed to notice the flickering flames or the smoky haze. His face was half-lit by the crimson glow, shadowed and fractured, adding a flickering mask of intensity to his demeanor. In his gloved hand, a small, metallic case—locked shut, pristine, polished to a mirror shine—clutched tightly. The contrast between that gleaming, unbroken object and the wild, unkempt setting was stark.
“Blood Beach,” Theodore whispered softly, eyes fixed on the bonfire, its flames sparking like fiery wounds against the dark night. “Nothing says fun like an unsanctioned ritual under an apocalyptic moon.” The words slipped out in a quiet, almost mocking tone, layered with a tinge of seriousness. He sniffed, barely perceptible, then allowed himself a small smirk. “Or maybe I just have a thing for overcooked symbolism.” The irony hung in the air, thick as the smoke swirling at the edge of the firelight.
But Theodore? His focus was singular. It was all about the tooth, what was hidden within. Or rather, what was inside that tooth. The one, the only, the Sunstone. For centuries, the stone had been nothing more than a myth, a whispered story only spoken in hushed tones by those who believed. Its final resting place had remained undiscovered until recently. That was until a patient of Theodore's, a woman trembling with quiet fear, revealed a startling detail during her last session. She cracked her jaw involuntarily while sleeping and begged him with trembling voice not to tell the shadows what she’d seen—that her mind was haunted enough without them. Her words unlocked the secret. The Sunstone had been concealed in the priest’s tooth, hidden away from prying eyes and vengeful spirits.
Now, Theodore found himself here—Blood Beach—under a moon that looked like a wound in the night sky. The moon cast long, sinister shadows, and the fire’s flickering glow seemed to flicker in time with some unseen heartbeat of ancient flesh. Standing at the edge of the firelight, he paused briefly, taking in the eerie scene before him. The air was thick with secrets, the kind that made the skin crawl and the mind race.
It was very unlike his wife the have nightmares, or daymares, whatever vampires have, but he had never known her to obsess over cryptic messages before. She had asked him about some sigil that he knew nothing about. In his centuries of his servitude deciphering cryptic symbols hadn’t been his area of expertise. He was fixer and his mistress wasn’t the kind to interest herself with sigils, therefore he never needed to worry about them. Her calling card had usually been deconstructed bodies that he was responsible for cleaning up and disposing of.
So, when Lydia started going on and on about this sigil, she had seen in both her dreams and in wax on her mirror, Julien took notice. He had not seen such a symbol in his dreams or etched on her mirror. He wasn’t sure if she was having a mental breakdown or if there was something truly going on here. Whether this was fact or fiction, he wasn’t about to let her wander off to some undisclosed location alone.
When Lydia left their house, Julien was not far behind. He was skilled at following his wife not from distrust of infidelity but a distrust that she wasn’t on the verge of going on a killing spree. She had done this before, and he was worried for her. Before he left the house, he had filled a satchel with some of the finest blood he had in the house. Some of the blood was mixed with very expensive scotch, which was Lydia weakness – vampirism saved her from being an alcoholic – and some of the blood was just plane, top of the line, humanely harvested blood.
He came upon the boundary of red lanterns with a bonfire that looked as if Hell itself had found a crack in the Earth and decided to break the celestial crust to dance in the ocean breeze. He stopped and looked around for anything that might prevent him from entering beyond the boundary of the lanterns. He wasn’t sure if this was an invitation-only event and some invisible force might be waiting to prevent his entrance. He lifted one of his hands cautiously and swiped at the air between two stung lanterns. No sting. No solid wall of magic met. No reason he couldn’t venture in.
He moved into the light of the bonfire and stepped up next to Lydia. In a confused tone he asked his wife, “Lydia, what is going on here?” There was nothing that scared Julien except something trying to manipulate his wife and him be helpless to stop it.
So, when Lydia started going on and on about this sigil, she had seen in both her dreams and in wax on her mirror, Julien took notice. He had not seen such a symbol in his dreams or etched on her mirror. He wasn’t sure if she was having a mental breakdown or if there was something truly going on here. Whether this was fact or fiction, he wasn’t about to let her wander off to some undisclosed location alone.
When Lydia left their house, Julien was not far behind. He was skilled at following his wife not from distrust of infidelity but a distrust that she wasn’t on the verge of going on a killing spree. She had done this before, and he was worried for her. Before he left the house, he had filled a satchel with some of the finest blood he had in the house. Some of the blood was mixed with very expensive scotch, which was Lydia weakness – vampirism saved her from being an alcoholic – and some of the blood was just plane, top of the line, humanely harvested blood.
He came upon the boundary of red lanterns with a bonfire that looked as if Hell itself had found a crack in the Earth and decided to break the celestial crust to dance in the ocean breeze. He stopped and looked around for anything that might prevent him from entering beyond the boundary of the lanterns. He wasn’t sure if this was an invitation-only event and some invisible force might be waiting to prevent his entrance. He lifted one of his hands cautiously and swiped at the air between two stung lanterns. No sting. No solid wall of magic met. No reason he couldn’t venture in.
He moved into the light of the bonfire and stepped up next to Lydia. In a confused tone he asked his wife, “Lydia, what is going on here?” There was nothing that scared Julien except something trying to manipulate his wife and him be helpless to stop it.
The fire cracked louder as the music dipped, just enough to hush the crowd’s voices. A ripple passed through the guests like a chill running down the spine of something already dead. No one had seen him arrive—but suddenly, he was there.
The Red Host stepped into the glow of the bonfire, his presence like silk on skin and something sharp underneath. Crimson embroidery licked the edges of his coat, catching the firelight in ways that should’ve been impossible. His eyes swept across the gathering—playful, dangerous, deliberate—and he smiled as if he already knew everyone’s secrets.
“Welcome, beautiful beasts,” he purred, voice low and dark as aged wine. “Tonight, you drink without limit. The bar is open—alcohol, blood, and every blend between. Don’t ask what’s in it. The ingredients are shy.” A faint chuckle followed. “And if indulgence isn’t enough… a few humans will be joining us shortly. Hand-picked. Sweet-blooded. Generous. Most of them even know what they’re walking into.”
He moved like smoke, circling the bonfire, never rushing, letting every word settle on tongues like a spell. “There’s a midnight swim for the bold, mocktails with names you’ll forget before sunrise, a scavenger hunt strung across boardwalk and sand… and music that listens back.” He tilted his head toward the DJ—silent, mirror-shaded, unreadable. “But beware the moon.”
He paused, then smiled wider, like someone sharing the punchline before the scream. “At ten o’clock, the Blood Moon will crest. And when it does, your powers may surge. Or fail. It’s unpredictable. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous. Like all the best things.”
The Red Host raised his hands—and fire erupted. A spiral of flame twisted into the air, wild and elegant, then crashed into the bonfire with a roar that seemed to pull the darkness in tighter. Light spilled across the sand, gold and blood-red. For a moment, it felt like the whole world held its breath.
And then he vanished.
No sound. No trace. Just the echo of his laughter, warm and wicked, carried on the wind.
The Red Host stepped into the glow of the bonfire, his presence like silk on skin and something sharp underneath. Crimson embroidery licked the edges of his coat, catching the firelight in ways that should’ve been impossible. His eyes swept across the gathering—playful, dangerous, deliberate—and he smiled as if he already knew everyone’s secrets.
“Welcome, beautiful beasts,” he purred, voice low and dark as aged wine. “Tonight, you drink without limit. The bar is open—alcohol, blood, and every blend between. Don’t ask what’s in it. The ingredients are shy.” A faint chuckle followed. “And if indulgence isn’t enough… a few humans will be joining us shortly. Hand-picked. Sweet-blooded. Generous. Most of them even know what they’re walking into.”
He moved like smoke, circling the bonfire, never rushing, letting every word settle on tongues like a spell. “There’s a midnight swim for the bold, mocktails with names you’ll forget before sunrise, a scavenger hunt strung across boardwalk and sand… and music that listens back.” He tilted his head toward the DJ—silent, mirror-shaded, unreadable. “But beware the moon.”
He paused, then smiled wider, like someone sharing the punchline before the scream. “At ten o’clock, the Blood Moon will crest. And when it does, your powers may surge. Or fail. It’s unpredictable. It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous. Like all the best things.”
The Red Host raised his hands—and fire erupted. A spiral of flame twisted into the air, wild and elegant, then crashed into the bonfire with a roar that seemed to pull the darkness in tighter. Light spilled across the sand, gold and blood-red. For a moment, it felt like the whole world held its breath.
And then he vanished.
No sound. No trace. Just the echo of his laughter, warm and wicked, carried on the wind.
Mitch had just started sipping his second drink when everything changed.
He’d been enjoying the buzz—real blood, not synthetic, and spiked with something that made his teeth tingle—and watching the strange procession of guests drift into the firelight. A woman in velvet with a stare that could skin a man. A tall guy with a medical-grade calm and shoes too clean for this much sand. People were showing up like this was destiny and drama had a baby. He was eating it up.
Then came Him.
The fire obeyed him. The music bent around his voice. And Mitch? Mitch leaned forward like a kid hearing ghost stories by flashlight. The Red Host's words were honey and teeth: unlimited alcohol, blood on tap, humans arriving later. Mitch’s grin flashed wide as the bartender refilled his drink without being asked. “Now that’s hospitality,” he muttered, licking a trace of blood from his lip.
But then the Host’s tone shifted, darker. The warning about the Blood Moon made his spine twitch, even as the thrill buzzed brighter in his chest. Power surging or glitching? That sounded like exactly the kind of chaos Mitch didn’t get to enjoy back at the hospital. Here, he didn’t have to save anyone. Here, he could just be.
When the fire shot skyward, Mitch actually whooped, lifting his drink like it was a toast to the devil himself. But when the Red Host vanished without a sound, Mitch turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “Dramatic bastard,” he murmured, impressed. Then he caught sight of the woman in velvet—Lydia—and the man who joined her. Something about them screamed important and terrifying.
He sipped again, blood-stained smile growing. “Yup. This is gonna be a good night.”
He’d been enjoying the buzz—real blood, not synthetic, and spiked with something that made his teeth tingle—and watching the strange procession of guests drift into the firelight. A woman in velvet with a stare that could skin a man. A tall guy with a medical-grade calm and shoes too clean for this much sand. People were showing up like this was destiny and drama had a baby. He was eating it up.
Then came Him.
The fire obeyed him. The music bent around his voice. And Mitch? Mitch leaned forward like a kid hearing ghost stories by flashlight. The Red Host's words were honey and teeth: unlimited alcohol, blood on tap, humans arriving later. Mitch’s grin flashed wide as the bartender refilled his drink without being asked. “Now that’s hospitality,” he muttered, licking a trace of blood from his lip.
But then the Host’s tone shifted, darker. The warning about the Blood Moon made his spine twitch, even as the thrill buzzed brighter in his chest. Power surging or glitching? That sounded like exactly the kind of chaos Mitch didn’t get to enjoy back at the hospital. Here, he didn’t have to save anyone. Here, he could just be.
When the fire shot skyward, Mitch actually whooped, lifting his drink like it was a toast to the devil himself. But when the Red Host vanished without a sound, Mitch turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “Dramatic bastard,” he murmured, impressed. Then he caught sight of the woman in velvet—Lydia—and the man who joined her. Something about them screamed important and terrifying.
He sipped again, blood-stained smile growing. “Yup. This is gonna be a good night.”
The fire had always listened to her. But even it flinched when he arrived.
Jade stood off to the side, her silhouette half-wrapped in the shadow of a torn canopy. She hadn’t announced herself—hadn’t needed to. She’d been here since before sunset, watching the first guests drift in with half-curious eyes and forgotten names. She could feel it in the sand, the shift of the air when the dreams took hold. When the sigil marked them. When the blood called. Her hands, gloved in soft leather, clutched a copper cup of something far too red and far too warm to be wine.
Then the music stuttered. The Host appeared.
She didn’t blink when the flames shot skyward, didn’t gasp like a few of the newer fangs did when the Red Host raised his hands and conjured something wild and ancient into the air. No, Jade smiled. Slow. Private. Like watching a storm roll in and knowing you’d seen it once before. She didn't know his name, but she knew his scent. Magic, wrapped in secrets. That same taste had burned behind her teeth ever since the wax-sigil had curled onto her mirror.
As his voice danced over the crowd—blood, humans, surging powers, glitching spells—she found herself more amused than alarmed. A midnight swim? Tempting. Especially if someone needed drowning.
She caught sight of a pale woman arriving—elegant, poised, and full of the kind of disdain that was either earned or dangerous. Jade didn’t approach, just lifted her cup slightly in a near-salute before stepping back into the motion of the party. The scavenger hunt would begin soon, and Jade had plans. She always did.
Jade stood off to the side, her silhouette half-wrapped in the shadow of a torn canopy. She hadn’t announced herself—hadn’t needed to. She’d been here since before sunset, watching the first guests drift in with half-curious eyes and forgotten names. She could feel it in the sand, the shift of the air when the dreams took hold. When the sigil marked them. When the blood called. Her hands, gloved in soft leather, clutched a copper cup of something far too red and far too warm to be wine.
Then the music stuttered. The Host appeared.
She didn’t blink when the flames shot skyward, didn’t gasp like a few of the newer fangs did when the Red Host raised his hands and conjured something wild and ancient into the air. No, Jade smiled. Slow. Private. Like watching a storm roll in and knowing you’d seen it once before. She didn't know his name, but she knew his scent. Magic, wrapped in secrets. That same taste had burned behind her teeth ever since the wax-sigil had curled onto her mirror.
As his voice danced over the crowd—blood, humans, surging powers, glitching spells—she found herself more amused than alarmed. A midnight swim? Tempting. Especially if someone needed drowning.
She caught sight of a pale woman arriving—elegant, poised, and full of the kind of disdain that was either earned or dangerous. Jade didn’t approach, just lifted her cup slightly in a near-salute before stepping back into the motion of the party. The scavenger hunt would begin soon, and Jade had plans. She always did.
You are on: Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Summer Soiree: Vampire Party