Vampires of London
- Loremaster
- Sep 20
- 2 min read
Whispers in the Alleys
“They walk the streets when the moon is high,” mutters a fishmonger while hauling his nets at dawn, “faces pale as chalk, cloaks drawn tight though the night be warm. They never cast a shadow when the lamplight flickers. Some say if you meet their eyes, your legs turn to stone and your will is not your own.” The beggars add that the finest houses of London have their doors opened at midnight not for lords, but for these pale masters. Coins flow through their fingers, yet their purses never empty.
Tales in the Taverns
By the fire in the Moody Badger and a hundred lesser inns, men swear on their ale that nobles who died last winter still walk Whitehall’s corridors at night. “Ever notice,” one sailor laughs nervously, “how no matter how tight the net of plague, some families never lose a child? They say their kin are already dead, and yet not.” The serving girls whisper that certain patrons never drink, save for a goblet of dark wine brought in from the cellars—wine that stains like blood and smells of iron.
Rumors by the Campfires
In the fields beyond the city, where tinkers and travelers gather, the talk is darker still. They say a prince older than London itself slumbers beneath the Tower, rising when kings fall to drink the courage of men. They speak of lords who hold court in ruined churches, of women with eyes like burning coals who sing you to your grave. Children are warned never to follow music heard in the fog, lest they find themselves bled white by dawn.
The Common Belief
No one agrees on the truth, but everyone agrees on this: the city is not ruled by the King alone. Behind the thrones and pulpits, something older and hungrier pulls the strings. To speak too boldly is to vanish. And so Londoners keep their candles lit, their garlic hung, and their prayers quick, hoping the pale folk will pass them by.
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