I, Ragnar Vhagar, the Vampire Lord of Aethelburg, the Tyrant of the North, the Scourge of Annoying Crystal Queens, was existentially, soul-crushingly bored.
My entire afterlife had been a frantic, exhilarating scramble for survival and conquest.
Now, with my rivals either dead, absorbed, or cowering in their basements, a profound and terrible quiet had descended upon my kingdom.
"This is unacceptable," I announced to the Crystal Spire's throne room.
My voice, now a smooth baritone that was excellent for brooding monologues, echoed pleasingly off the walls.
"My bloodlust has dwindled to a mild sanguinary curiosity.
I almost complemented a goblin on his choice of skull-based centerpiece yesterday. This cannot stand."
Pixia, my tiny, flying spreadsheet, zipped over to my shoulder.
"My Lord, may I suggest this is a perfect time for you to engage in some personal growth?
