[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King's Castle]
Try to imagine being inside a filthy, rotten and dried-up blood-filled dungeon for ten days with nothing to do but either fight or see my shadows slaughter—
BOOOOM—
"FUCK YOU TOO!"
A crater formed ahead of us, dust and red mist exploding outward like a blood-filled volcano sneezing on my last threads of sanity.
Paimon's helm turned slightly.
Astra's golden eye narrowed.
Draugr cracked his neck like he was preparing to body-slam whatever dared appear.
And Bob—
Bob vibrated in circles around my leg like a caffeinated Roomba.
But what crawled out of the crater…
…yeah, no.
Absolutely not.
"Nope. Nope. I'm done. I want a refund. This dungeon is defective."
A pair of pale, skeletal hands—long, elegant, covered in ritual runes—gripped the crater's edge.
Then a figure slowly, dramatically, emerged through the dust, as if he had been practicing this entrance in front of a mirror for centuries.
A tall, aristocratic silhouette.
