The Death of Darragh Ó Conaill
This article is a part of Spooktober 2023 and is still a work in progress. Written for the Helpless prompt.In his twenty some odd years of life, Darragh Ó Conaill had done many things. He'd been an unrepetant rake, a drunkard, a brawler, and - perhaps above all else - a terrible son. The eldest and yet worst example of the two sons that Uilliam Ó Conaill had brought into the world with his English wife before she had disappeared. Twenty some years that had culminated in a life of whoring, drinking, and fighting...and yet, he had never felt helpless before. Never well and truly helpless. Until now. Until that dark-skinned, foreign woman that he had run into hours before in the inn looped an arm that was too strong for her small size around his neck and sunk her teeth into his throat. Darragh tried to scream but the sound caught in his throat as he reached back to grab her by her dark hair, trying to pull her off. Away. Anything. He was certain that his grip was sure - the wiry dark strands of her hair clung to his fingers, practically wrapping themselves around his hand - but she didn't move. Merely laughed - laughed! - into his skin and made a pleased sound as it felt like she dug her teeth in deeper, the pressure on his throat increasing from mere pain to agony. In that moment, he realized that she was suckling at his throat, drinking his lifeblood like some mockery of a lamb on its mother's teat. Darragh choked on a pained cry and tried to twist away from her but her small form held him captive. Still. Even the largest of the brutish town lads who liked to badger the country boys hadn't been able to hold him down since he'd passed fifteen summers and grown taller than his father. Yet this tiny woman near half his height was holding him captive? The warm, wetness of his own blood flowing down his neck made him panic and Darragh fought harder. He pulled, tried to scream, fought to do anything to get free. Nothing worked. She held him still despite all of his efforts and he felt himself only getting weaker and weaker. More helpless. He managed to get out a vague, choked sound when his legs collapsed out from underneath him, and expected to end up in the dirt. Instead, the foreign woman supported him and gently lowered him into the dirt behind the old Mac Uallacháin barn where she had caught him. Wait...why was he behind the Mac Uallacháin barn? Was he...where was Ceallach? He had...he had been with her, hadn't he? As his vision blurred and his thoughts struggled to process, Darragh was finally aware of her pulling away from his neck, though the pain lingered. Only now the pain was all over his body, buried underneath the prickling pins and needles sensation that every inch of his skin seemed to be screaming at him. She wiped blood away from her mouth, licking every drop of it off of her fingers, and then smiled. He saw teeth like a hunting hound in her mouth. “You're all mine now, sweet boy,” she purred in that foreign accent of her and then bit into her wrist, causing blood to flow freely down her arm. Then the oddly lukewarm, iron tang of it was on his lips, in his mouth, and she ordered, “Drink. Drink and survive.” Darragh opened his mouth and let the odd blood fill it, swallowing weakly through his raw feeling throat. Not knowing what was happening. What this was. He did know that he wanted to live. And never feel helpless like this again.
A bloody hand clawing at the dirt, created using Playground AI
Timeframe: 1663
Location: County Kerry, Ireland
Event: The vampire Ebio fulfills a deal made years ago with hunter Marie Smith, allowing her to live with the promise of the vampire taking her firstborn as her child upon them reaching adulthood.
Consquences: Darragh Ó Conaill becomes the third child of the vampire Ebio, losing his memory in the process.
The third child of the vampire Ebio, he lost his memory of who he had been when he was turned in the 1660s and became little more than a killer driven by intense bloodlust. By the 1780s, he regained his memory and has since struggled to control the aftermath of his years of bloodthirsty killing and figure out a place to belong.
The favorite of the Elder Issuru's children, it is known that she was born in Egypt and that she and her sister, Abana, were turned at the same time. In her life, she has garnered a brutal reputation that makes hunters usually whisper her name and has sired three children, loving them as if they were her own by birth.
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