May 17 1859, Hatsburg, TX
“I said shut up!” The male with long black ponytail shouted, slamming his hand on the bar top.
“Excuse me? No one shall speak to me that away, understood, even if you do own most everything round here?” The bartender exclaimed at the shouting male. There was a gunshot and the bartender was blasted back into the many racks of old alcohol bottles behind him. The man sneered and blew the smoke from his revolver barrel before holstering it. The whole bar was stunned at the random act of violence.
“Stop there!” The saloon doors swayed open furiously. Tapping against the walls, a silhouette of a man walked into the bar. A long black cape draped down to his covered up boots. He had a pistol sitting in a holster attached to his left hip.
“Dampierre,” The male chuckled, but on the inside he was truly frightened “Or Beast as the natives enjoy calling you.”
“The natives despise you, Dragar.”
Dragar brushed his long black ponytail back under his tan cowboy hat. “You don’t scare me.”
Dampierre smiled like a wolf. “Oh really?” He moved so fast nobody in the saloon saw him move from the space he previously was in to how he suddenly was standing behind Dragar and breathing in his ear. “You don’t even know the start of the pain you are going to be struggling through.”
“Stop with your foolery, Beast!” Dragar hissed as he spun around to face the mysterious man. “You want settle this like men?”
“You’re barely a man,” Dampierre whispered. He knew of Dragar. He was a notorious gun-slinger with a quick temper. He once beat a man by covering his eyes and firing his gun backwards. He was also the owner of many stables and farms near the area meaning he was arrogant and had the law, what there was of it, on his side. “Courtyard, now.”
Dragar stomped out to the courtyard while Dampierre glided after him almost ghostlike. Dragar flicked his ponytail “Gun-slinging is my specialty, if you want to argue with me, you’re arguing with the barrel of my gun.”
The patrons watched with hushed tones as they stood opposite each other. “Three steps, turn and draw.” Dragar said with a grin.”You, count it.”
Dampierre nodded as they stood back to each other. “Three. Two.”
Dragar spun on two and fired. BLAM! BLAM! The bullet raced past Dampierre and into the wall.
“My bullets never miss!” Dampierre stated as he turned and fired. Gunsmoke filled the air. Dampierre coughed. Once the smoke cleared, everyone saw Dragar collapsed with three bullets to the chest. Dampierre was nowhere to be seen.
368 B.C, Transylvania
Dampierre could sense the fear in the prisoner’s soul. Today would be his last day. “Up, peasant!” Dampierre shouted. The prisoner was out of his rock bed and up at the stone doors. Dampierre fiddled with keys before sliding the large door open.
“Well, say goodbye to your friends.” Dampierre said. The cells were all empty, all ridden of the former prisoners who once lived there. “Let’s go.” Dampierre said, clinging on to the prisoner’s less dominant arm. Down many corridors, steps and unlit chambers, they had finally reached the blood pits.
The blood pits consisted of some sort of dark magic the necromancer had created. The blood pits both swallowed the person thrown in and made them drown in the blood water, or teleport them somewhere either early in the past, or late in the future.
Once he began throwing the prisoner in, he gripped on to his elbows and pulled him down in. “Let go of me, Dragar.” Dampierre shouted. “Never, if I go down, you’re going down with me, demonic scum!” Dragar shouted. Down, down, down they went in the bloody water.
Sand, sand is all Dampierre felt and a burning sun that beamed down on his like his father’s death glare. Close to where Dampierre was sitting on his hands and knees, a town, a town with a large wooden sign that read, “Hatsburg."