The Essence...

I learned of this trade in the shadowed alleys of —, a city of crumbling spires and haunted whispers. A man—I dare not speak his name—came to me with a tale that turned my marrow to frost. He spoke of the Gatherers, emissaries of the Vampyres who walked among us, unseen, their black-gloved hands extracting essence with a touch as soft as a lover’s caress. The victims, left pale and hollow-eyed, would wander the streets, their souls fractured and fading, yet they would speak not a word of what had transpired. For who could describe what they could no longer feel?

I became obsessed, my nights consumed by furtive studies in forgotten tomes, my days spent tracing the invisible lines of their commerce. It was not long before I uncovered the secret—a clandestine market deep beneath the city, where the Vampyres convened to trade doses of The Essence, its shimmering hues shifting like the surface of a storm-tossed sea. To the Vampyres, The Essence was life, and to those desperate enough, it was power. A single dose could ignite ecstasy or restore vigor to a body on the brink of decay.

One fateful eve, driven by madness or curiosity—I know not which—I dared to descend into the catacombs. The air grew thick with an unholy perfume, and my heart quaked as I beheld them: gaunt figures cloaked in robes darker than the abyss, their eyes glowing faintly with hunger as they haggled over their ethereal wares.

I felt a hand upon my shoulder—cold, lifeless, and yet electric with power. Turning, I faced one of them. His lips parted in a smile that chilled my soul, and he spoke words that rang in my ears long after I fled:

“You have much Essence, mortal. Shall we bargain?”

Even now, as I write these words, I feel the weight of his gaze and wonder if I left that accursed place intact. For in every mirror, my reflection seems dimmer, my soul lighter, as if my essence is slipping away...