Doomula came fully appointed. Moon in the correct quarter. Bat nesting established, full stock of peasants in the village below. What a horrific castle! It was perfect!
But the UPKEEP of a castle, oy vey! Nobody wants to be up a ladder in November's sodden clutches feeding the gargoyles or testing staircase humidity levels for maximum dankness or the viscosity of the slime on the castle walls...
So the Count came down his own front stair to take the evening air, perhaps catch a little children of the night music, as is his custom and his right, and found the wolfman already on the path!
"Vhat is dis??" The Impaler's lips curled back in disgust. The creature was sniffing. Sniffing at things that were not his to sniff! And Pissing!!! And then round the corner of the keep, at that terrible unhurried amble, came the cadaveric clunker, square-shouldered lad with the excellent posture and the poor conversation.
"Oh bloody hell!" The son of the dragon said. Three of them. One castle.
