Dulce made his way to the blacksmith's from Miss Elinor's shop. There was only one blacksmith in the entire village, who was a towering, brutish man who spoke quietly in contrast to his appearance.
"Blacksmith Woller?" Dulce called, making his way into the soot-covered smithy. He could hear the clanging of metals deeper in, the fire from the forge guiding him.
Woller stopped his hammering when he noticed the arrival of a guest, straightening up. He had to partially hunch so that his head wouldn't hit the wooden roof of the smithy, a low-hanging lantern swaying from side to side.
"Here to finally pick up your dagger?" The blacksmith went right to it without any bother for pleasantries.
Dulce nearly tripped in his eagerness, hurrying forward to offer a leather pouch heavy with coins. It had taken him months to gather the money for a silver dagger he needed.
Woller seemed to take the money pouch with reluctance, even though the strange-looking man had moved into the village for a year now, he still had the air of a guest. The thirty silver coins needed for payment were a decent sum, but not one that would take so long to gather. He had already been done with the dagger weeks ago.
His hesitation only lasted a moment before he placed the pouch to the side and then went off to get the silver knife. It was in a worn, leather sheath but was delicately crafted.
Woller had never seen the symbols he had been asked to carve into the dagger before. Rumors were that Mister Montserrat came to the west from the far north, so it was likely the symbols meant something important to him.
Dulce giddily took the dagger and promptly lost his hold on it, the sheathed knife clattering to the ground. "My apologies," He mumbled, crouching to pick it up before the blacksmith could react. "And thank you."
Blacksmith Woller watched the strange man make his way out of the smithy with a thoughtful look in his eyes reddened from smoke. How strange, for a moment it felt like the clumsy, dazed man had moved rather fast and effortlessly.
-+- -+- -+-
With his bounty in hand, Dulce returned to Elinor the Shopkeep to retrieve his milk can and then make his journey home.
"Mister Monteserrat," Elinor's chirpy voice greeted him on his return. "I prepared too much lunch for myself. Why don't you take some off my hands?" She lied glibly, pushing a neatly packed lunch in his direction.
Dulce didn't notice the discrepancy, taking the basket with a smile. "You're too kind to me, Miss Elinor." He said, graciously accepting the packed lunch and the cleaned, empty milk can.
He didn't linger long, beating a hasty retreat back to his cottage. Dulce only came down to the village square once a week, sometimes less. Yet, despite this, he found it harder and harder to keep his distance from the pleasant citizens of Dewmire.
As soon as he got back to the cottage, he carefully kept the packed lunch in the kitchen, truly grateful for it because it wouldn't go to waste. But there was no time to eat now, after a long while of meticulous planning, his goal was nearly within his grasp.
Being a Vampire was such torment, especially now that the Queen of Alderth, one of the fastest-growing powers in the west, was spitefully and relentlessly hunting down Vampires. She had also gotten the surrounding countries involved, Vampires getting gathered up in droves and executed.
Dulce had run into so many close shaves in the past few years, Dewmire the longest place he had stayed in since the Queen's soldiers came knocking on his front door. His modest estate had been seized, and even as he fled, he had learned that his servants, who had been more like old friends, had been the ones to tip the soldiers off.
He sighed as he went into the spare bedroom, it had enough space for the ritual he needed to make. It truly wasn't the first time something of this sort had happened, but Dulce was gullible, and humans were such interesting creatures.
If he wanted the bleak truth, even if the servants of his old estate hadn't sold him out, they would have eventually died of old age, he couldn't say which outcome would have stung more.
But he had renewed hope, hope that he could finally find a companion who would remain loyal by his side and not die of old age. He enthusiastically got on his knees on the wooden floor and busied himself with drawing the sigils. He took extreme care because if something went wrong, he would have to spend months gathering up the ingredients once more.
The red, scented candles had been prepared for a while now, so he carefully unwrapped them and placed them in the appropriate positions on the large, detailed sigil drawn on the ground. After hours of preparation, there was only one last detail to be added.
Outside the open windows in the bare room, it was nearing late afternoon, and he would soon need to herd the sheep back into their pens. Thinking about the sheep, Dulce thought to himself that if he successfully summoned a companion, he might indulge and have a sheep for dinner -- to celebrate.
His hair had completely fallen out of the messy braid he had put it in for his trip to the village proper, and for the umpteenth time, he thought about cutting it. All it did was stand out and get in his way.
When he had been the lord of a small estate, it had been permissible, natural even, but now that he was a commoner down on his luck, it would only bring unwanted attraction.
Dulce lit the last candle, the warm light cast over his ethereal features, focus in his silver blue eyes. Then he took out the carefully polished silver dagger and held his hand over the burning candle in the center of the formation.
He had long memorized the words, but he carefully read them again, only going ahead when he was satisfied. Bright red blood dripped into the candle from his wrist, the silver dagger coming away bloody.
The burning flame on the candle didn't extinguish despite the pouring stream of blood, instead it flickered and turned red, then an ominous shade of purple. It turned back to red again just as it exploded in a flame of fire, throwing Dulce against the wall.