His breath steamed out into the bitter cold night air, satisfying his unnatural fear of life leaving him when he least expected it. It was one of the many insecurities the finely dressed Ghoul struggled with on a daily basis, the last vestiges of life and humanity fleeing his grasp without him having a say in the matter. The smoky essence of his life’s breath reassured him that for now at least he was still very much part of the living. 

With that business out of the way, he walked around a low cut wall and up marble steps, striding towards the entrance of the Ambassador’s ballroom. He cut a striking figure, black hair flying free in the wind, his features sharp and handsome. However, on closer expection budding suitors would no doubt be put off the greyish pallor of his skin and the near constant shaking in his limbs, his eyes roving like a predator. The guards at the door looked down on him, but saw no reason to detain him in his fine red jacket and embodied white undershirt, suit trousers completing the look of just another fop attending the Ball. Perhaps they were overly assured in their own abilities, or perhaps had surrendered any hope of keeping violence from the Ballroom, as he passed by without incidence. Underneath his jacket, two Queen Anne flintlocks rested at each hip, and a deadly steel mortuary sword dangled from his left side. There was no need for a stake tonight however, he wasn’t doing any business immediately and even if he were his target was no Vampire.

“Lord Adrian Valdovsk, Baron of Damask.” The announcer ushered him in with far more fanfare than he would have liked on a reconnaissance mission, but he couldn’t help giving the name of his Master, so that any nuisance he made of himself at the Ball would fall at that bastard’s lap. Damaging the Master’s reputation was an ongoing project for Isaac the Ghoul.

He swept into the ballroom, earning himself a few appraising glances before his bloodshot eyes and unhealthy complexion forced even the more desperate ladies in the room away from seeking his company. He sighed inwardly, always a narcissist the loss of his good looks still pained Isaac after all this time. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would look far less pretty by this point if he had aged naturally regardless. His eyes began to seek his target as he moved amongst large crowds of people, seamlessly blending in with any other number of well-dressed gentlemen. 

Princess Rosella, young, only fifteen by his most recent reports. She would make a fitting pawn for the master’s plan… though getting to her would be difficult. Isaac clenched his fists silently, jealousy mounting as he considered the girl receiving the gift he had been promised on surrendering his freedom. His Master would never turn him, why would he? Vampires were individualistic and dangerous, hard to manipulate and control regardless of who sired who. The Master knew the day his fangs drew Isaac into the dark embrace, transforming him into a Vampire, Isaac would come closer than any before him in delivering the final death. 

Isaac shook himself from such pitiful musings, realising it was unlikely he would ever taste freedom again, the chance of being human again long since passed. There, was that the princess dancing with the King of somewhere or other? He sighed and looked around, his hand unconsciously reaching up for a vial of the Master’s blood. It was at that moment he remembered he hadn’t brought any with him, he hated it after all. His hand dropped, the shaking intensifying.