Red Court

The Red Court does not knock. It breaks in—dripping, grinning, hungry.

On the surface, they are seductive, smooth-skinned aristocrats: charming diplomats, worldly artists, perfect lovers. But the flesh they wear is just that—a mask, stretched over something ancient and obscene. Beneath it is a creature of claws, bat-like wings, and bloated hunger, glutted on the blood of the living.

The Red Court feeds on blood, yes—but also on addiction, binding their prey with supernatural venom. A single bite is enough to leave a mortal yearning, craving, needing more. Victims don’t just die—they waste, slowly hollowed out until they beg for the next taste… and the next… and the next. In time, many become willing cattle. Others are turned.

Their hierarchy is a dark empire masquerading as nobility—courts within courts, ancient lords who remember conquest, and duels fought in shadow. The Red King, cloaked in silence and mystery, rules from a palace soaked in sacrifice. His will spreads like a plague across continents, whispered through agents who wear smiles like fangs.

Their kind nest in cities, old and new—operating nightclubs, cartels, and private estates where blood flows more freely than wine. Entire governments have been corrupted or crushed beneath their influence. And when they act, it’s with terrifying precision. They are not rabid beasts. They are predators, refined and relentless.

The Red Court is gone from many places now—driven back by fire and sacrifice—but never assume they are extinct. Their survivors burrow deep, and their spawn are patient. Always watching. Always thirsting.

If you see the red of their eyes, it’s already too late.

But more likely, you won’t see anything at all… until you feel the bite.