Vampire story; but not 'Twi*****' vampires; Gothic ones.
Family of vampires living in the Border Princes (to get the most out of it, you really need to know about Games Workshops WHFB)
Called, du Coudray.
In the Border Princes, Castile du Coudray, tall spires casting spindly shadows of Gothic elegance over the lands it called du Coudray Suggero. Inside, in the Great Hall, sat fourteen figures. A huge window, at the east end of the building, let in the light of the two moons, which cast a silvery pallor over the scene.
One of the figures, his face a dark shadow because of his position with his back to the window, sat upon a chair that was almost throne-like in appearance, with gold filigree and various sized gems inlaid, from ring sized chips to fist sized rocks, lifted his right hand, in which was held a goblet of marble, filled to the brim with crimson blood. A rasping voice broke the deathly silence, “Drink, my family. Soon, we’ll have what is ours, and the weak and mortal shall bow before us, and quake with fear. Ahh, the glory of it. A blasted landscape, humans farmed like the cattle they tend. With us at the head of it. The Empire will fall, and be resurrected with a new hierarchy.” With a murmur of approval, the others lifted their goblets and downed their blood. “Now, family, disperse to your duties. Orlando, Uriel, please, remain.”
With a scrape of stone on stone, chairs were pushed from the table, and ten vampires left the room. Bartram du Coudray, head of the family, remained seated in his throne-like seat, with Giselle, first of his get and wife of three centuries, sat beside him in her seat, radiant in the moonlight, a beauty the like of which was rarely seen in the Old World. She was busy with her attendant daemon, weaving her necromantic arts, keeping the wards of the castle strong.
“You two,” Bartram began, “a caravan has entered our lands. You two are to ensure it doesn’t leave. Orlando, I trust that your wraiths and spirits can, err ... Handle, the escort. This was a wealthy noble, I understand, and he had funds to hire mercenaries. Uriel, to you I entrust the task of capturing the non-combatants. They are not to be killed, understood?” he growled the last question, leaning forwards slightly, and his eyes and fangs came into view. A emerald wraith light burnt in his eyes, smoldering, and his pearlescent teeth gleaming, apart from the blood that clung to the tips of his fangs, before he rolled his tongue over them, carving a rivulet in it, which healed almost instantly.
His two sons stood to attention, ensconced in their crimson armour, with the du Coudray crest proudly displayed on the right hand side of the chest-plate, and swords sheathed at the hip. “Yes, Father”, “Of course, Father. They’re not to die”. Orlando, already looking slightly ethereal as he communed with the wraiths of the long dead elite of the province, started smiling slightly, and his fangs grew and protruded from under his top lip, slicing through his bottom lip. He relished the pain, and knew that it wouldn’t be long until he inflicted some himself. He almost shivered with ecstasy. Uriel was more composed, but was anticipating it hotly. It had been too ling since his last hunt. Father wouldn’t notice one or two missing, surely.
“Go, boys, and do what you must,” Barthram ordered, his voice like rocks grating in a skaven warpstone-mine. His sons-in-darkness clicked their heels together and turned neatly, marching out of the room. Beyond their fathers view, they started running, pushing at each other playfully.
Back in his throne, Barthram smiled slightly as he heard his boys start messing about. They would do their jobs. “Soon, Giselle. Soon. I promise”. Giselle smiled and nodded,
“I know, my love. Soon”