[Authors note: This chapter contains no actual sex or nudity, other than one vague, brief reference. Apologies to readers looking for some hardcore smut, I hope the ongoing story is worth the skip in sex; it will be back in the next chapter I promise!]
The sunset cast a bloody sanguine glow across the cracked plains of Tierra Muerta, the golden red light bathing the jagged horizon in red like the final embers of a dying fire. Vanity sat atop the horse she had acquired from Zach Blackwood, the great beast snorting and kicking at the dry ground beneath them, its ears twitching nervously. Before her, the light bled away into the creeping, unending darkness of Carnivale; the Blood Coast. The realm of the Vampire Lords, wrapped in a shroud of eternal night that stretched like a veil drawn along the border of Tierra Muerta's cantral plains.
The hard ride to the border from Blackwood Creek had taken nearly ten hours. It had, thankfully, been uneventful, but Vanity's thighs ached and her back hurt from the effort; and the magnificent Stallion from Zach Blackwood's personal stable was huffing and foaming. She pulled the kerchief from her face, shaking loose the dust of the trail as her violet eyes narrowed at the shadowy expanse before her. Her chin-length red hair clung to her damp neck, slicked back with oil but unruly in places from the long ride.
"The fuck am I doing here?" she muttered under her breath, her voice roughened by the dry air and frustration. She stretched, arcing her spine with fluid grace, cracking her back.
The horse beneath her shifted, its muscles tensing as if it sensed some foe or presence she could not. Vanity glanced over her shoulder, then back toward the border. The line between the cracked, sunlit earth of the plain, and the shadowed territory beyond was stark and utterly unnatural. She could almost taste the darkness not a hundred feet ahead, feel the caressing touch of the swirling mist, the unholy energies of the place. Nobody had ever crossed that border and came back alive. The stallion whinnied, shaking its head, shifting in place. It was terrified.
"Alright, boy," she said softly, sliding out of the saddle with practiced ease. Her boots hit the ground with a dull thud, throwing up small puffs of dust. She patted the horse's neck and whispered soothingly. "You're not going in there. Got it."
The animal whinnied softly, shaking its head, and Vanity didn't blame it. She squatted, stretching and rubbing her sweat-slicked thighs, working the muscles out, limbering and loosening them before carefully strapping her pistol holster and throwing knives around the suspender belts on her thighs.
She pulled her pistol from its holster, flipping it open to load fresh rounds. Each one was flat-headed, loaded with powdered silver shot. The metallic click of the twin barrels locking into place was sharply reassuring in the oppressive quiet. Next, she grabbed her slender silvered shortsword, pulled it from the scabbard; the blade faintly gleamed in the reddish dying light. She gently tested the blade with her thumb; sharper than a barbers razor. She slid the blade back into the scabbard and slung it across her back, adjusting the strap so it hung comfortably over her duster. She checked the contents of her small leather shoulder bag; a case of spare silver rounds, waterskin, two vials of holy water, and an eight inch silver dildo carbed with delicate arcane runes. She took a handful of shells and slid them in place into her belt, and clasped her bag shut. Finally, from her belt pouch, she retrieved a brass compass on a delicate chain and checked it. The needle quivered for a moment before locking into place: northwest.
"A mausoleum, three hours northwest 'cross the border," she murmured, remembering the instructions from Zach Blackwood. Sure they were vague, but they were all she had. Tucking the compass away, she turned her attention back to her horse.
The beast stamped its hooves, its ears pinned back, and Vanity sighed softly as she clapped the horses neck. "Alright, dont fret big guy, you're staying here." She looped the reins around a tall cactus, tying them securely before pulling out one of her knives. With a swift, precise motion, she cut into the cactus, the blade slicing through its tough green skin. A trickle of water oozed out, pooling in a waterskin she had hung there, opened wide enough for the horse to drink from, then strapped a feedbag over another stem of the cactus, pulled wide open for the horse to reach.
"You're set," she said, giving the horse one final pat. "Eat, drink and make merry. And don't you dare fuckin' bolt. I ain't plannin' on walking all the fuckin' way back to Blackwood Creek."
She turned back toward the oppressive border, her boots crunching against the dry earth. The darkness loomed closer now, curling at the edges of her vision like smoke. She adjusted her duster, and gripped her pistol briefly for reassurance before stepping into the shadow.
In a mere instant it felt like she'd stepped through a curtain; a palpable veil to another world entirely. The temperature dropped instantly, a cold, unnatural bite sinking into her skin. The faint hum of distant insects and tumbleweed faded, replaced by an eerie looming silence that prickled the back of her neck. Vanity's violet eyes scanned the terrain ahead as she began her trek into Carnivale on foot. The world behind her vanished, swallowed by the darkness as Vanity stepped deeper into the eternal night of The Blood Coast. Overhead, Tierra Muerta's two pale, cold moons hung in the sky like dead eyes, their sickly glow casting the landscape in dim, pallid light. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, curling and shifting like living, wicked things as Vanity pressed forward.
The frigid air smelled of damp earth, decay, and old blood. The sound of her boots crunching on the rocky ground echoed unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet. Her hand hovered near her pistol, her senses heightened, every nerve on edge.
The landscape was a far cry from the cracked plains of central Tierra Muerta. Gone were the dry, sun-scorched rocks and hardy cacti. Here, the terrain was uneven and treacherous, the path winding through gnarled, twisted trees. The dried mud and gravel soon gave way to slick wet rock and fetid soil littered with moss-covered stones, mud and shallow pools of deathly still stagnant water that reflected the pale moonlight like shards of broken mirrors. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound was long and mournful, cutting through the eerie silence like a blade. Vanity froze, her breath catching in her throat. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the howl was joined by another, and then another, the chorus of predators filling the cold eternal night.
