#ser proletius

Dark Lord Zargothrax, fiend of Scotland, has recently been rampaging across the lands with his undead army. With massive flying bats and a horde of undead unicorns, the High-Vampire has claimed the mighty Citadel of Dundee, claiming with it his latest victim, Ser-Proletius. Freshly bitten and quite terrified, the once-mighty paladin must navigate this new blood-sucking lifestyle under the care of his greatest enemy.

Notes:

Yo, so it’s been a long ass time since I’ve written anything. Please be patient with me :,D I hope I get to finish this one. I’m using writing this fic to help myself with some IRL things, pfft. I just thought “man Zarg would be cool as a vampire”, remembered vampire-spawn rules, and here we are. Also available on AO3 : here

“What has he done to me?” Proletius utters shakily, raising his trembling hand to his face. “Why am I so… cold? Is it the bloodloss…?”

His gaze shoots around the hall, searching for somewhere safe to recover, even if he knows nowhere in here is a sanctuary. With a mighty push his frail body hobbles toward a large wooden door, the burned tapestry of Fife still hanging from the nail above. Proletius unveils a grand library, the books strewn recklessly about, untouched since the initial siege. A thought flickers across his mind - perhaps here he might learn what has become of him since he was bitten.

Proletius navigates the disheveled library, blurry eyes searching the strewn books. He recognises the covers; Ralathor would often be found browsing these books. Unicorns, the undead, and… vampires. There, he has found it. Proletius reaches down to fetch the book, his knees buckling, followed by a shrewd grunt of strain. But he does not let his collapse halt his progress as his hands clutch the book, peeling open the pages to awaken their knowledge to his eyes.

“Ghh… History, weaknesses… types…” Proletius whispers, his voice strained and tired as he reads through the words. “What is… an underling?”

His eyes dance across the words, but his hazy mind pains to comprehend what he is seeing. There are two kinds of vampires, and their powers differ greatly. A true vampire, and those whom the vampire makes it. Proletius swiftly realises which one he is - the underling. He was bitten, his blood drained while he struggled and cried. Now he is lost, destined to thirst for blood, but bound to the whims of his new lord, Zargothrax. A true vampire can exist like any man - they may live in the sun, enjoy the tastes of a fine meal and a rich wine, and even indulge in the juiciest garlics in the lands. But an underling? They harbor no such luxuries. Their fate lies in the hands of those who turn them.

“There you are, my little vamp-ling…” Zargothrax’s bitter voice echoes in the room, followed by a devilish chuckle. “Doing your research, are you? I’m sure you’ll learn far better with… experience.”

The rich scent of copper fills Proletius’ lungs as he feels the presence of the Dark Lord behind him. He stiffens, Zargothrax’s arm reaching around to his front, offering… a chalice. He twitches at the sight, his stomach churning, not of repulsion, but of hunger. His tongue wets his lips instinctively, but the rational part of his mind makes him hesitate.

“Drink, little one,” Zargothrax urges in a low rumble. “Lest your body fail you and you crumple to ash before my very eyes…”

“No…” Proletius protests, but the quiver in his voice betrays him.

“I said drink,” Zargothrax growls, leaving no room for argument, “You do not get to choose.”

Proletius hesitates, only to find the chalice forced against his lips. He wants to gag, to retch, to fight against this wretched act… But his lips part, the hunger far too consuming to dare risk ignoring such a tantalising meal. The second the blood touches upon his tastebuds Proletius is forced to reckon with a new, dreadful fact about his existence. The stench of copper, the iron, the flavour… it is… appealing. Delicious, even. Thus, before he may protest another second, his hand cups the chalice from below and tilts it back, allowing the blood to flow easily down his throat.

“There we go…” Zargothrax purrs. “You like it, yes? I picked them out just for you. A rich flavour… It shall nurse you to health swiftly.”

“Nnh-” Proletius pants, licking his reddened lips with his now crimson-stained tongue. “It… tastes…”

“Good, yes?” Zargothrax chirps eagerly.

“...Yes…” Proletius utters in defeat, “Dreadfully so…”

“Good,” Zargothrax grins, circling around to Proeltius’ front. “You may be my underling, Ser Proletius, but should you behave I promise you a well-nurtured existence within my care.” Zargothrax straightens up, gazing down at the hunched underling. “You may wander the Citadel, but you shall not leave. Not that I will stop you, but one freshly turned like you? You will not survive.”

Proletius opens his mouth to speak but not a syllable leaks from between his lips. He blinks up at the taller vampire, watching him standing to leave. His mind is preoccupied, reeling with thoughts of escape. He could flee! Scamper out of the Citadel and run away. Maybe he’d find a village willing to help him… No, folks despise vampires. Maybe he could rough it out in the planes until he figures out a better plan? No… He’d be cooked the moment the sun would rise. Maybe he… but he shuts the thought down, realising there isn’t any reasonable escape. He knows his best option is to stay. To see how things play out from here.

Thus, Proletius lifts his weary body, his ears wiggling slightly, acknowledging the straining creak of the heavy wooden doors as Zargothrax takes his leave. He’s finally alone, and the gods only know what has truly become of him. His brow furrows as, in the silence, he begins to hear the sounds around him with a sharper sense than before. Perhaps it’s his vampirism, or maybe it’s just fight or flight. Regardless of what he speculates it may be, Proletius can hear… skittering. The rapid patter of miniscule feet on the cold stone. The high-pitched, stealthy squeaks that indicate life hidden beneath the furnishings of the room.

“Rats…” Proletius murmurs faintly, “I wonder when they moved in…?”

The Underling finds himself absently wandering the Citadel. His mind wanders, recalling the times he’d visit with his mighty Crail knights. He recalls his briefings with Sub Commander Ralathor in the library, and the meetings with King Angus in the grand hall. He chuckles as he remembers managing his troops in the courtyard as they’d all bicker with the Citadel’s staff. But it all feels so distant now. Proletius knows he could technically escape. There’s no spell of control over his body, no forcefield applied along the borders of the Citadel. But he knows Zargothrax is right - He couldn’t survive out there. Not in this state. He can only imagine what his old friend Ralathor would think of him now. A desperate, gluttonous beast. He lusts for blood, hunts for death… Even as he gazes upon those… helpless rats… his stomach churns, yearning for more. He hasn’t eaten much in the past month…

Despite his turmoil, time treads on. Days turn to weeks, and before Proletius can even register it, he’s been here, under the “care” of Zargothrax, for a month. Every single day of the month Proletius returns to the library. He reads book after book, starved for any information he can gleam about his newly turned body. He is desperate for any information that could help him - help cure him. But every time he settles down to read that damned skitter returns. The rats run about, hidden just out of sight, and it begins to drive the underling mad.

“Damned rats!” Proletius yells, slamming his book down hard on the table, “go back to your nests, won’t you!? Leave me in peace!”

He’s given pause as he realises his yell has startled the tiny beasts, sending them scattered throughout the library. A wretched thought crosses his mind - perhaps he could eat them? No, no. He’s not a savage… But he’s already licking his dry lips, his stomach aching at the very prospect of a meal, regardless of the source. He furrows his brow and snaps his gaze back to the book, trying to return back to the words on the page. But right as his hand hovers over the paper he spots something. A single flicker of movement just to his right. A sharp inhale follows, his breath held as he eyes fall upon one of the rats, which has boldly crawled its way onto the table, just within arms-reach. It’s nose twitches curiously toward the old tome, it’s instinct classifying the paper as a meal.

“I can’t…” Proletius utters to himself, shaking his head in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to resist. “I… I’d never…” He’s breathless. His body is rejecting him. “No-”

Much to his dismay, however, Proletius cannot control himself any longer. In a fluid whip of the wrist, his fingers snatch up the rat. It all occurs so quickly that the poor creature can hardly react. It squeals and struggles, but it doesn’t have a chance. In a flash Proletius sinks his teeth into the squirming creature, ignoring the rat’s struggling squeaks for mercy. He inhales its scent deep. The blood is wretched, tainted. The taste is similar to that of spoiled meat, mixed with an aftertaste of rotting fish. It almost makes him gag, if not for his body drawing every ounce of essence from the dying creature in his hand.

It’s not until the movement halts - not until not another drop can be drained - that Proletius stops. He stares at the rat with a look of disgust, his lips curling and nose scrunching in response to the sight. His fingers finally pry open, allowing the tiny corpse to unceremoniously fall onto the table as Proletius grapples with what just overcame him. He cannot believe he had done this. He didn’t even do the mercy of killing it before he drank. But part of him knows if he did, the taste would’ve somehow been even more foul.

“Poor thing…” Proletius murmurs, unsure if he means the rat or himself. With a deep sigh he kneels down, running a single finger over the sucked-clean wound on the now motionless rat. “...You served your purpose well.”

Proletius picks up the stiffening creature, cupping it in his palm. He says a silent prayer to himself in hopes that Zargotrhax does not see him. He begins on his way, treading through the halls of the Citadel, taking a familiar, subtle route out to the courtyard - one that Ralathor had shown him some months ago during a militant meeting. Out in the Courtyard the sun shines bright - a bitter agony for an underling like him - but he persists. Proletius slinks through the shadows, finding his way to the dying rose-patch.

“In death… I hope you might provide some life to these poor plants,” Proletius whispers, sighing out his held breath as he lowers to one knee, setting the dead rat amongst the soil “Perhaps… it will rain soon…”

Small angus and small proletius

Gloryhammer released the new outfit of the characters for the next album, so of course I had to draw them all!

Hootsman : I don't know, pass me the saxophone and we'll find out.

Hootsman : *Plays sax loudly*

Ralathor : WHO THE FUCK IS PLAYING THE SAXOPHONE AT TWO IN THE MORNING