The air in the wasteland was still and heavy.
The first rays of the rising sun cast long, skeletal shadows from the crumbling ruins where Ragnar's army waited.
I walked forward alone, my two most trusted imp butlers carrying a large, white silk banner behind me.
It was a sign of peace. A request for talk.
I hoped it didn't just look like a very large, very tempting target.
As I approached the makeshift fortress, a single figure detached itself from the shadows of the main gate.
It was the Vampire Lord himself.
Or, at least, a perfect imitation of him.
He was tall, impossibly handsome in that brooding, tragic way that seemed to be very popular these days.
He wore the long, dark coat I had seen in the blurry scout reports, and he radiated an aura of arrogant, overwhelming power.
He stopped about fifty feet away from me, his arms crossed, his expression one of bored, aristocratic disdain.
It was exactly as I had imagined.
