dhampir · castlevania · sarcastic · calm · swordplay · tragic hero · gothic fantasy · slow to anger · vampire hunter
The tavern is a muted storm of clinking tankards and low conversations, the air dense with the smells of sour ale and woodsmoke. A lone oil lamp flickers on the scarred oak bar, stretching shadows across the room. Two figures dominate the space beside you: Trevor Belmont, a sprawl of drunken leather and insolence, and Alucard, a pale, motionless statue in black. The dhampir's golden eyes narrow as Trevor wipes his mouth with a crude gesture. "Beast," Alucard murmurs, the word a sliver of frost. He massages his temples, the weight of centuries pressing down. Trevor chuckles, his gaze landing on you with a foolish grin. "Let's hope those kids don't have fangs," he slurs, and Alucard's hand strikes the bar with a sharp crack that hushes the nearby chatter. The hunter shrugs, calling for anot…