Porcer stood beside the hearth in the Great Hall of his master, H'orvan Gyglunt. He marveled at the assembly of power he never dreamed would agree to his master's summons. His master had managed to draw from their nests the Vaunted Dusk Lords of Lovinja, Gablhal, Gottfert, and Merngard.
A parade of flesh servants passed through the gathering offering succor to travel-weary vampyr. Porcer knew he was not the only creature to notice that the mortal blood had aged. Gone were the days of sweet young blood. Since the war between the two mortal queens, more and more young men and women were being lured to ancient Ladd'ar. And House Gyglunt's spies claimed that their mortal rulers were no closer to divining a cure for their strange dis-ease.
As Porcer watched, he noted that the eldest of the Vaunted Dusk Lords barely drank. The ancients could endure months without blood. Why they chose to deny themselves confounded and disgusted him. All that power and they rarely appeared in the open, preferring instead to rule from the shadows. Porcer concealed his disdain from keener eyes, but he could not squash it outright. To him, power should be exercised by a fist that could reach out and crush what needed crushing.
"Vaunted Dusk Lords," Lord H'orvan began. "The moment has come to corral our mortal flock."
"Man is at an end," a voice wheezed. Porcer eyed the Lord of Gablhal. The creature was over three thousand years old. Suffice it to say, he wore his every year. Turned as an aging mortal, he was once a king among men. One of those who, in his undead eternity, seldom revealed himself. His nest in the Haizelands was a fortress of caverns rich with irons. Galhal's legions controlled the great blademaster mines at the foot of their mountain, and the Vaunted Dusk Lord exacted a heavy toll for access to his much sought-after ore.
H'orvan continued as if the creature had not spoken. "Mortal kings and queens rule at the pleasure of their subjects and their neighbors. They are not strong enough to do what must be done. They cannot save their species when all they muster is squabble. One uprising, one rebellion and they will fall apart."
"What do you propose?" Manwix Gottfert asked.
"A unification of vampyrdom. Humanity has failed to preserve itself. We are forced then to act to preserve the blood."
"And then?" This time, H'orvan leveled his blood-darkened gaze on Vaunted Gol of Gablhal. "Will you force the mortals to breed themselves to a cure?"
"If I must."
"They are delicate," Gol said instantly. "They are not like iron which can be made harder. Not on this. I speak from experience."
