Sire (draft)

vod link.

Welcome in, everyone! We’re writing vampires tonight!

Content notes for tonight’s stream include blood-drinking, manipulative behavior and abuse, violence (including violence that results in the deaths of minor characters), and religion-fueled supernatural bigotry.

Although I’ve done my best, this is a WIP, and thus an exact list of content notes simply isn’t possible.  Please keep yourselves safe.  I will completely understand if you have to leave.

i reccomend watching this on x2 speed. the words do not always go nyoom, plus i’m always fiddling around with shit.

I’m never going to remember to update the stream info beforehand am I? XD…

I’m not gonna be streaming tomorrow or on the 1st.  The 1st, obviously, due to the #DayOffTwitch.  And tomorrow cuz I know I stream late in the night, and I don’t want to accidentally roll over into the 1st.

I’ve got timer commands now! I’m so proud of myself XD.

And kappamon!  this is the raccoon. i love it to bits.

it is a paid one, about $10 or $20??? i forget. yeah $10. there’s plenty of free ones, and they’re super cute. and there’s so many of them; there’s a kappamon for everyone.

i’ve been thinking and dreaming about this story for a week now, and i’ve been excited to write it, and now that i’ve finally sat down to write it. no.

“the story might not be as perfect as it is in my head, and that’s okay. it’s a draft, it doesn’t have to be perfect. just write the words.”

it’s also a bit more violent, darker than my typical stream stories. and the first narrator i’m going to be using is the manipulative, abusive asshole who’s responsible for half the content notes.

so yeah, you know, if you’re ever wondering if i get nervous writing on stream in front of people, yeah that happens!

Rodrick. Rodrick Ravine.

Darren. Darren Galabridge.

Galabridge. Alessandro Roscoe Oscar Galabridge.

(was checking a thing and then my friends were posting things that warranted congratulations and support.)

focus mode engaged!

me: tells an acquaintance that streaming helps me focus on writing.

also me: gets distracted from writing on stream.

this is why i don’t have twitter on my streaming computer.

it has OBS, google chrome, and blender. that is it. i don’t need two computers with twitter!

and the chromebook crashes sometimes, so occasionally, it forces me to leave twitter.

what if i skipped rodrick’s section for now???


When Rodrick found Darren at last, he was a mockery of himself.  His hair was unfurling down his neck.  He’d dressed in a paper-thin, white gown: the raiment of “purification”.  Something to beckon The Exalted for “forgiveness” and “healing” from the “sin” of vampirism.


Darren felt like his body was breaking apart.  Parts were floating away while others were locked down in silver chains.  The Church had stolen his clothes and replaced them with this white gown that weighed too little.  He had no anchor!


Darren felt like his body was breaking off into pieces.  Some were floating away while others were locked down in silver.  The chains burned!  There was no telling the time in this place, but there came a time when he stopped noticing how much physical pain he was in.  Now there was the agony of floating.

The Exalted Church had taken his clothes and replaced them with some gossamer shit that weighed too little.  He had no anchor!  Or rather, he did; it just wasn’t applied evenly.


The silver burned him.  The gown unmoored him.  The slab froze him.  The hunger ate him alive from the inside out, cannibalizing anything it could use to fuel his escape.

Darren broke his chains off the slab with a heaving hiss.  [His pupils were dilated into serpentine slits, unseeing as he clawed along the wall.]  He all but flew out of his torture chamber, racing towards an escape.

He was seeing windows again.  It was raining, thundering against the moon as he rushed through the endless halls of the Church.  The floors were carpeted—thinly so, but nonetheless a blessing for his exposed feet.  Anything was better than icy stone at the moment.

The adrenaline wore off all too quickly.  His knees buckled beneath him.  The chains clinked against each other as they pooled at his sides, mocking him.

He clawed his way forward.  He was terrified of the Churchgoers finding him and dragging him back there.

Every time he breathed, it felt like his ribs were caving in.

A tall, grand figure approached.  In his terror, he first assumed it was one of the Churchgoers, but his sensory memory pulled up Rodrick’s footsteps.

“Rodrick…”

Darren tried to say his sire’s name, but that only shredded his last slip of calmness.

He cried.

He cried, and Rodrick got him out of those damned chains at last.  [As Rodrick held him in his arms, it occurred to him that he didn’t think he’d ever be safe again.]


Rodrick gathered his fledge into his arms.

Darren had burn marks from the silver that had once been against his skin.  Silver, supposedly, was a holy metal; preventing vampires from accessing their true power.  Rodrick was pleasantly surprised to note that Darren had broken them from their anchors on his own.  Rodrick was proud.  Darren was developing excellently.

The gossamer gown the Church had dressed him with was a mockery of the soft, heavy fabrics he favored.  It allegedly beckoned the Exalted One’s favor to heal a sinner of their vices.  The only sin was the Exalted One’s antiquated fashion sense.

Their Bond screamed with the pangs of hunger.  The Church of Sunlight made their victims undergo a fast to purge their bodies of the “tainted waters” they’d drunk.

“They’re going to pay for what they’ve done to you,” Rodrick told him.

Darren looked up at him with watery eyes.  It was a look of utter devotion. Of surrender.

Rodrick carried Darren through the halls.  In his current state, draped and collapsed against Rodrick’s back, Darren didn’t see the multiple exits Rodrick passed over.

They came to the auditorium.

Services ended early that day.

Rodrick drank the blood of the Churchgoers.  It wasn’t the sweet juices of the living, but Rodrick couldn’t risk losing his grip on Darren due to impatience.  He still regarded these things as people.  Darren would rebel against such extremes. For the moment…

“You need to refill your strength,” Rodrick finally said, having had enough of Darren contemplating the corpses.

Rodrick could see Darren’s hunger at war with the vestiges of his humanity.

“…It seems disrespectful,” Darren said.

“Letting their blood go to waste seems even more disrespectful, don’t you think?” When that didn’t work, Rodrick said, “They believe we are monsters to be murdered or converted!  They tortured you for days on end!!  Make them return the strength they stole from you!!!”

Darren flinched.  He watched Rodrick with wide, unblinking eyes.  As if Rodrick was the threat.

Rodrick breathed out, affecting calm.  He had to remember that the point of this exercise was to foster devotion, not obedience.  Darren, aversion to feeding aside, was already splendidly obedient otherwise.

Finally, Rodrick smiled upon him, “I admire your heart, Darren.  That’s why I don’t want you to waste it on those who would never give you theirs.”

Darren frowned.  He gazed upon the corpses again.  Rodrick carded his fingers through Darren’s hair while Darren drank his fill.  With every successful suggestion, Darren became more suggestible to the next one.  Soon, the only chains Darren wouldn’t be able to break were the ones he begged Rodrick to place upon him.

Rodrick summoned two phantom horses once they were outside.

Darren’s uncertain look was adorable.  Rodrick rather admired how thoroughly Darren’s parents had broken him.  Rodrick had never sired a fledge who was easier to train.

Still, this complete lack of confidence wouldn’t do.  Not even a Deacon who’d just graduated seminary would fear a fearful killer.

“You can ride,” Rodrick nodded to Darren atop his own horse.

It hadn’t occurred to Rodrick at the time just how severely he’d miscalculated Darren’s strength.  He’d been impressed with Darren’s work on the chains in addition to finally getting him to feed directly from a human.  Rodrick had let it distract him.

It’d been raining.  Storming, in fact.  And Rodrick supposed Darren had been right about needing additional riding lessons.  Rodrick had been leading.  He’d been riding hard and fast to get them away from that accursed place—too hard and fast for someone as new an equestrian as Darren, especially on a phantom horse he hadn’t summoned himself.

Rodrick stopped immediately when he sensed Darren’s horse dissipate.  That only happened when a phantom rider dismounted.

Rodrick heard a crash and a splash.  Rodrick’s eyes fell on the river.

“No!!!”

Rodrick pushed his horse quickly, following the river’s edge, chasing an ever weakening Bond.  Rodrick hollered again when their Bond disconnected entirely.


Galabridge was enjoying the clacks of the rain against the sitting room windows.  He had a warm cup of coffee and an even warmer fire.  The crack and crackles of the flames went well with the rain.  There was also the roar of the river!  Galabridge was delighted by tonight’s feast of sounds. And lights!  The lightning struck beautifully in the black-gray sky.

It was during one of these brilliant flashes that he noticed something had washed up at the riverbank.  Merely curious, he didn’t see the point of going out yet.  From this far away, he figured it might’ve been a log.

It was not a log.

He abandoned his coffee, grabbed his coat, and rushed out there.  The closer he got, the more he hoped it was just an animal.

[speaking of animals, mine keeps knocking things onto the floor. one moment.]

[if y’all ever need help clearing a desk, ask your cat to do it.  my desk hasn’t been this empty in years.]

Technically, people were animals.

[The boy-man, Galabridge wasn’t quite sure which yet, was soaked.  Unconsciousness had a way of taking off a hundred years.]  The young man was soaked.  All but drowned, really.  He was frozen.  As Galabridge rushed him inside, he considered it a miracle he was alive at all.

Galabridge assessed him more thoroughly once he was in dry clothes and out of that bedraggled gown.

[And in nothing but that gown.]

Galabridge froze.

Not just any gown.

A conversion gown.

Galabridge’s heart broke as he saw the telltale signs of silver burns across the man’s wrists and ankles.  The hollowness that only came with torture by starvation.

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