The groom, Edgar Markov and the bride, Olivia Voldaren. The two Major Vampire Houses of Innistrad and the defacto rulers of the Stensia Province
Being skeptical of gods actually makes a lot of sense in this world since there isn't really common gods here. Avacyn the angel was the highest protection that once existed and now all that's left are the last of the angels. (Not to say that no gods exist or that no worship goes on but what's 'common' is different here)
The decree hanging outside his door was very clear on that part.
Blessings and good tidings upon the reader, for the day of most splendid joy approaches.
We eagerly await your tithes: one bowl of blood from each resident, once a night until the festivities. We have even been so generous as to provide you the bowls. Mind that they are enchanted; we shall know if you, ungrateful beast that you are, shatter them. Our representatives will be by to collect. Do not make the mistake of offending them. You know, I should think, the consequences of such foolish actions.
We hope that this found you well. If it did not, know that your blood will serve no matter your condition. You are not exempt.
Your eternal liege,
Olivia Voldaren, Unquestioned Lord of Innistrad
Stensia.
Once, he loved this place: its spires, its secular air, its traditions. Everywhere on Innistrad, there were traditions, of course, but only in Stensia did it feel like they had proper application. In Kessig, they only suspected they were surrounded by werewolves. Here, the presence of vampires was as natural as the presence of the plague.
But how could you manage a plague that had so changed?
Some of the villagers had taken up jobs in the castles nearby. If you worked for them, they said, you were safe.
But sometimes you die out there in the castles, while you're on the job, and what's your family to do then?
And now, the tithes. The people here used to think they were safe—but even those who risked work in the palaces of the damned had to provide their blood.
Nothing felt right anymore.
To my Dearest, Most Precious Sorin Markov, Whom We Could Never Forget on This Day.
"To a wedding. Oliva Voldaren's wedding." The name is poison on his tongue. "She's stolen my grandfather. If they marry, they'll form the largest of the vampire families. They'll—she'll rule all of Innistrad."
The Voldaren Estate is swirling with red: the carpet red beneath their feet, chased with golden thread; red in the gowns and suits of the attendees per the dress code; red, beautiful and dark, in the tiered blood fountains every few paces. But most impressive were the swirling red petals dancing through the air.
Olivia's fine taste truly is on display tonight—thralls are strapping, lithe, beautiful, and handsome, but never boring. The tray in his hands holds crystal goblets of fresh blood; Cordelia considers for a long moment if she'd be chastised for drinking straight from the tap instead. There are no marks on this man's rippling form. Probably not worth risking it if he's someone's special pet. Besides, there are five duels going on in the hall already, one of which has taken a turn toward evisceration. It's unbecoming to eviscerate someone at a wedding.
Doesn't stop the Nusfar, though. Few things do. As Cordelia picks up another goblet, a boy who looks all of ten drives his hand into a man's chest. She tuts. The victim is Kristoff Laurent, a Markov known for dueling at the drop of a hat—but all the martial skill on the Plane won't save you against the pure predator instinct of the Nusfar. She liked Kristoff, though, as passionate everywhere as he was on the battlefield.
Watching him bleed out now, she feels only the barest trace of sadness. Ah well. Love is as fleeting as a flower, even for immortals.
Ting, ting, ting.
Silence rolls over the grand hall like a crimson tide as all eyes land on the dais.
Olivia Voldaren has finally arrived.
And what an entry she's made! Floating down the steps in her wedding finery, her swirling, haunted sanguine train held aloft by bats! Every gleaming arcane light glitters anew, every one illuminating some new detail: the glimmer of her golden jewels, the glint of her teeth, the glamor of a gown made from the spirits of her oldest victims. In all the time Cordelia's been alive—a few hundred years now—she's never seen such sartorial heights. That collar has got to be at least as tall as some toddlers.
"Greetings, my dearest friends, my most ardent enemies!" No good can ever come of her sounding so happy. "I see we've already had some murders. What fun! I can't tell you how happy it makes me to have blood sacrifices at my wedding! But what would a wedding be without a groom?"
She holds aloft her glass in signal to some unseen forces. Soon she is no longer alone on the dais: a group of immaculately dressed thralls—most in Avacynian finery, for the joke—emerge carrying an elaborate stone coffin: marble inlaid with gold, crowned by Markovian rays.
The thralls set the coffin down standing up.
In that moment, the ballroom is as silent as it will ever be.
"No one enters without an invitation," the guards say. Olivia Voldaren must have selected two vampires whose voices could perfectly harmonize for just this job, because they do, and it is the most sonorous dismissal in all of Innistrad.
Towers floated atop chunks of rock on either side of them. Within each of those towers, a host of Voldarens and their guests pour blood for each other.
Onward through the gates of the castle, filigreed with the Voldaren symbol and Olivia's silhouette within it. The sheer audacity of the woman. If egos alone could conquer, Olivia Voldaren would have long since carved her throne from the bones of Innistrad.
Onward through the doors, where music swallows him whole. Enthralled musicians play near gilded fountains of blood. The piece is at least three hundred years old by his count; everyone here knows it. And, indeed, there are some who dance to the tune, even here where the party has not yet begun. The green light filtering in through the windows lends everything an eerie cast, as if he is watching a painting in place of people.
But then it comes, inevitable as the outside tides—one of the revelers gets hungry, wanders over, and tears out a musician's throat.
Really, some of these guests can't be counted as people. To be given over to your desires so thoroughly that you cannot keep yourself from ruining the entertainment is to be less than human.
The hallways of the Voldaren Estate are meant to confuse. It's one of Olivia's oldest tricks: get the revelers drunk by one means or another, tell them they absolutely shouldn't wander off, make a few people disappear when they do. There are more geists in the Muttering Corridors than there are pages in all of Olivia's library. Each one a victim of hers. Each one wandering these weird halls, where doors sometimes lead to sudden drops and stairs are given to rearrange.
Onward, to the ballroom itself, a space so wide it is difficult to imagine how it fits within the castle's architecture. The moon alone could not provide ample lighting; spectral yellow-green magic fills in the gaps. Dancers, duelists, lollygaggers, and layabouts—there are hundreds of them gathered, and all are reflected upon the polished marble floors. Fountains of blood offer succor and inebriation; chained thralls offer something a little fresher for the connoisseurs among the crowd.
A lithe man by the doors blows a horn.
"Announcing the extremely welcomed, very honored, Sorin Markov!"
The daggers shift then, the crowd's attention now on Olivia. With a small flourish, she rakes the knife across her arm. Old blood, potent blood, blood dark as the night around them, drips onto Edgar Markov's coffin.
The red chandelier above, the red carpets below, joined by the woman in her red wedding dress, the red blood on the white slab coffin.
Each drip makes him angrier. Every instant that woman's foul blood runs along the carvings of his family histories is an insult. His grandfather—his grandfather, who created everything these people so value! His grandfather, who created them, used as a simple political tool.
He knows what is going to happen. The grooves run all the way to the inner workings of the coffin. Any moment now, that woman's blood will drip onto his grandfather's lips. The rush of it will leave him overwhelmed—and, worse, her own memories and emotions will mingle with his.
Sorin was so careful whenever he woke his grandfather. He'd wait and wait until his own storm of emotions had settled, he'd keep his mind trained on pleasant memories, he'd do whatever was necessary to see that his grandfather woke comfortably. To wake from slumber is a frightening thing, much as no one wants to admit it.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and Sorin," Olivia announces, "I present to you my handsome, perfect betrothed: Lord Edgar Markov."
He takes her hand. For long, horrible moments, he drinks the blood from her wrist. Only after this does he rise from the coffin.
Done with his meal, he dabs at his face with a handkerchief. Now he turns to face the crowd, now he takes in the sight.
"Grandfather!" Sorin shouts. "Grandfather, she's controlling you—"
It is only then that Edgar regards him, and only as a man might regard his unruly pet. The smile from only moments ago sags into sympathy. "Sorin, please. You're ruining the festivities."
At its apex is Olivia Voldaren, smiling with glee, two tipped goblets of blood acting as the frame for the rest of the window. How long had it taken to complete this monument to Oliva's ego? How many arduous hours were spent shaping every curve of her lips, every jewel, every eyelash?
"Welcome, welcome! Oh, it's such a delight to have so many guests. I simply couldn't have a wedding with the groom's side empty. It'd be such a faux pas."
"Now, I'm sure you're all honored to be here, and dying to get to the main event. But I hope you'll forgive me; I have a little something else planned first. A little amuse-bouche, if you will, and a present for my dear Edgar. Thralls!"
Bound Angel. Angel blood was the start of vampirism,
"Beloved guests, you have come here today to participate in the most sacred ritual on Innistrad. It is said that herons mate for life. For those such as we, eternal and unchanging, such a promise reaches beyond mortal understanding. The Lady of our most illustrious house, Olivia Voldaren, has pledged her heart to Edgar Markov, and he, his undying affections to her. I understand Sorin Markov has brought his grandfather here to be married?"
The priest smirks. "Very well. Now. The two of you can speak your vows to one another, if you've prepared them."
He doesn't ask who will go first. Olivia speaks the very moment his tongue rests.
"Edgar. Darling Edgar. We met so many centuries ago I've long forgotten the occasion—but I remember the moment I realized we should be together like it was yesterday. Sorin left your coffin unguarded, and I thought to myself, what a fool to leave a man like that unattended. You're in my care now, and together, we'll rule Innistrad. I promise I'll always consider your opinions for at least a moment before rejecting them, Edgar. I promise to overlook your sartorial missteps. And I promise to grant you the honor of being my husband."
"Thank you, Most Illustrious Lady Voldaren. Those vows brought tears to my eyes," says the priest, who has likely not cried in centuries. "Lord Markov, your vows?"
"I object."
"Sorin," says Olivia, baring her fangs, "you're ruining my special day."
"So, I just have a question," says Chandra.
Arlinn smirks. Standing outside the gates, they've had little in the way of things to do. A new set of guards replaced the old, but they're no more talkative. "What's on your mind?"
"It's a vampire wedding, right?"
"Right," says Kaya, sensing danger. "A vampire wedding."
"Do you think there's cake in there?"
"I think your little party's over," he says.
Chandra grins. "Looks like the party's getting started."
The two of them join the crowd: cathars mounted and unmounted, priests bearing herons and priests bearing Avacynian collars, and farmers who have lost their families.
Onward across the bridge, toward that den of depravity, the rush of the living and the mortal.
Onward the lances, onward the hammers and shields, torches and pitchforks, the holy tomes and blessed blades.
And downward come the bats. Distant, at first, easily mistaken for pieces of falling ash, but the sound soon drowns out that hope. Screeching pierces her sensitive ears; Arlinn covers one and tucks the other against her shoulder to try and block out the cacophony. It's no use.
But what is useful are the bolts of magic hurled over her shoulder. Arrows, too, soon find their marks. As the bats descend, hungry for blood, the witches and archers are eager to meet them. Fur sizzles; the screeching worsens—and then goes silent. Her ears are still ringing as the bats go down. She can't hear the crunch of their bones beneath the boots of their makeshift army, but she can feel it.
She can feel the shift beneath her, too, as they move from simple stone to carefully curated marble. Up ahead, at the secondary gates, the guards have already been overwhelmed, floating face down in pools of blood. Maybe Kaya's right. If they aren't quick, there's hardly going to be anything left.
The Church could be as bloody as any werewolf pack.
Olivia's not cheering. "You . . . all of you! You're ruining my wedding day!" she roars from atop the stairs.
"At least use a proper weapon!" Sorin snaps.
"I thought you understood," Sorin rumbles. "I thought you saw, grandfather, that there is more to this existence than gluttonous parties and wanton excess. I thought you saw that!"
"You are a child. You have always been a child," he intones. "It's truly a shame. Millennia ago, I gave you a gift. Now I have to live out the rest of my days knowing you squandered it."
"I never asked for that—" Sorin begins.
"My dear boy, that is what makes it a gift."
Memory subsumes reality. He is a young man, called into his family's gathering hall. His grandfather sits at the head of the table. Lashed to the ceiling is an angel, her blood dripping into a wine glass.
Everyone is there. His aunts, his uncles. His parents. All of them lay their hands upon him and tell them this is for his own good. For the family's own good. If they're to survive in the dark, they must become a part of it. Famine has taken all the things that humans eat—so they should no longer be human. It's perfectly reasonable.
He's dizzy.
He opens his mouth.
Blood—sweet, sticky, intoxicating as wine—pours in. Sinew weaves itself back together. Bones crack into place. Wounds stitch shut. His muscles swell with stolen vigor—his vigor. They thought this cellar would drown him, but it's only made him stronger.
It takes longer than he'd like. With every reach of his hand, his body continues to heal itself, continues to stitch itself back together. He grunts. But he throws himself fully to the work, to the effort, and when he crests the lip of the pit, there is no longer any place for doubt within him.
Sorin steps into the maelstrom. An arrow whistles over his shoulder. He catches it, driving it into the throat of an oncoming Voldaren guard. The man struggles to breathe. Sorin twists the arrow's shaft.
"Quiet," he says.
The man collapses when Sorin pulls the arrow away. Sorin doesn't much care.