Vampire Rites: Catalyst

One of Ylrios' earliest memories was the stories before he slept.

His caretaker found enjoyment in it, he felt. Changing his voice for each character, shifting tones and accents, a deliberate cadence from one scene to the next. He was not alone on the bed, with many other warm-furred bodies curled up under their shared blanket, but the stories felt personal like they were made for him. At the very least, they reached him and he kept them close, let them dance in his mind, let him dance across the wooden floor.

When he grew up and joined Burrowgatory, he wrote down on the form that his preferred occupation was to join a troupe. It was not glamorous or dramatic; it also took time. Eventually, fortuitously, he found a place to settle, a stage to transport him to another world. Time blended together, mixing months and years into honing a craft and surviving, maybe even living, if he felt he was generous enough to call it that. And while the buns he spent time with were not exactly close relations, he could call them friends if necessary.

"Ready to go, Yls?" one of the performers called to him. It wasn't a nickname he recalled agreeing to, but it had stuck somehow, spread across the troupe like smoke. His gaze flitted between buns - chuckling, conversing, sometimes pages being flipped, a dialogue out of its element.

"As I will ever be." he pushed himself off the seat, hooves heavy, but there was little point dragging, there was only so much time before it was curtain call, where he had to put on a mask for the show.

He was not scared of performing, not tonight. He had donned the Phantom many times before; a classic amongst Burrowgatory folk, and one that many felt that he was perfectly suited to, in appearance, voice and mannerisms. However, there was something that had been stalking him for the past few showings. He was not sure if stalking was apt, but it was eyes on him, a hunger that made his fur stand on end.

Was he imagining things? How could one feel the faintest terror in a sea of watchers? Ylrios had brought it up once to a fellow troupe member, a hypothetical what-if scenario, and as expected, he earned a snicker. Ghost stories getting to you?

He thought of what his caretaker told of him, of creatures real and mythical, where sometimes they can be both, blurring that line between figment and tangible. If these creatures did exist, they had generally stayed away from Burrowgatory, did they not? Reasons beyond him, he wondered if the relative peace that Succubuns experienced was more fragile than to be believed.

Lights dimmed in the theater except for the stage where they stood. Steps echoed on wood, projected voices carried themselves to willing ears. A cape allowed Ylrios to conceal most of himself from time to time, forming a sharp and large silhouette. His dialogue did not betray any fear from his true thoughts, but when his gaze needed to turn to the audience–

There.

On the left, far to the back where the doors lay. Something seized Ylrios, the briefest pause that only those standing beside him would notice, but he would recover quickly, attempt to bury the fear deep. However, to his frustration, said fear found itself seeping into every crack, making it harder to move, harder to breathe.

He didn't even notice how much time had passed on autopilot until he found himself exiting the stage, away from piercing gazes. Ylrios took in a deep breath, shuddering. He wondered if his pursuer would capture him before the play finished or if he would need to suffer under its suffocating aura, weightless to everyone else.

But Ylrios was not the type to yield, especially not in his own domain. When he knew it was his turn to step into the light once more, he moved and obeyed the play above all else. He knew this by heart, after all, every word and beat, every gesture and expression.

And then it was finished.

Applause erupted from the audience and the heavy red curtains dropped in front of them. A job well done, he was told. There was a certain edge to his acting particularly tonight, wasn't there? Ylrios nodded along, letting himself be ushered to the backstage. This was the only show for the evening, and so he could take his time before he headed back home.

Only a few warm-colored lights remained to illuminate them when he exited the stage. In hindsight, he did not understand why he wanted to be the last one to leave. It wasn't because he was self-sacrificial. Maybe it was simply a lapse in judgment.

Whatever it may be, it would be a choice that would seal his fate, for in the silent hall, he found that he wasn't alone, after all.

(Forgive the narrative, but the visitor was thorough. What happened next would be a mixture of guesswork and patchwork memories, like a poor bun's attempt at putting a shattered vase back together).

"What do you want?" Ylrios asked, voice low.

He remembered–

–a laugh? (only the concept remained, none of how it sounded like)

–a reply? (waiting, a praise, a flicker)

–an icy plunge, eyes like whirlpools, fear personified, amplified, heart so still, seconds passed.

One thing was clear amidst the blank silhouette, a faint glimmer of something sharp sitting under lips. But they looked like a bun, so he thought, so what was different? What was terrifying him so?  The idea of monsters hiding among them resurfaced, with proof standing in front of him, for he felt that there was no bun out there who could command such a powerful presence, not unless they were also something more.

He remembered asking again, but he couldn't hide the tremble in his voice. He must've taken steps back, but where else was there to run? Could he even afford to turn his back?

He remembered every single word enunciated, seared like scars.

I want you.