I wrote a thing inspired by three clicks of Seventh Santcum’s random random generator generator and it’s making me laugh

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Cynthia Drach.

Card hacked her name out of his throat and flashed a smile in the mirror. By Oldgod, he loved everything about that woman. He couldn’t really put his wingfinger on it—he had a girlfriend he liked just fine; he’d never tasted Cynthia’s blood; she wasn’t even Oldkind, if he was being honest with himself—but he needed to be around her.

“Like a drug.” He tested the words that sprang to his mind in the silence of his Spartan white bathroom, drawing out the vowel of the last word. Dru-uuug. He flicked a sneer at himself, the sort of sarcastic sneer he reserved for true, private self-evaluation. How cliché you are, he told himself. How trite. Ricardo Barlow, you are a rat bastard vampire.

No mercy. Not for that ugly mug in the mirror.

Now, Cynthia…he could forgive her for anything. Even bringing her fiancé to the company barbecue, though that was nearly an unpardonable sin. He’d never met the guy, but he was certain of his superiority. Rat bastard or not, you are a vampire lord with an era of wisdom. You are the better of the game producer. Yours are the hands that should clasp Cynthia Drach’s when she flies to your car at the end of the day, her hair—

A sharp mewling sound cut through his catalog of Miss Drach: Skyhide, his most pressing reminder of Oldlife, grumbling for breakfast. Card flashed one last annoyed sneer at himself, revealing just one long fang, then spun away to tend to his pet dragon.

Skyhide rumbled and tugged on his chain as Card came into the common area. The oft-misidentified dragon was, more specifically, a wyvern—a thick, blue, wormy, two-legged scaly thing with wings that Card had been shackled with for so long, he’d forgotten why or how long he was supposed to endure it. Skyhide never seemed to get older, as if he’d come pre-made ancient, and Card figured he could stop counting how many years he’d dragged the creature around with the world with him after they’d passed the three century mark.

Still, some spark of fondness (or perhaps resignation) passed between vampire and wyvern as the former crossed through the dark-tiled kitchen and came to hover at the black refrigerator. Card opened it, stared inside. There was very little in the way of food. Most of it was expired. The rest was so filled with preservatives that he didn’t dare feed it to the loathsome beast, lest it bind them to its immune system and live forever.

Card flung the fridge door closed with a dramatic sigh. “Skid, you will have to wait on breakfast. I am sorry. Will you walk with me down to the store? Mmm? It might take an hour, I am afraid, but perhaps I can feed you right outside the store. Would you like that? Mmm?” He got down close to the floor, a few feet from the wyvern, and eyed Skyhide at eye level. “Please. I beg you not to make today more difficult for me than it already will be.”

The wyvern’s pelt shuddered as it shook with a very specific emotion Card recognized with growing horror as indignant rage. Outside the windows of the townhouse, dark little clouds began to congregate. Card sighed, dropping his head onto his upper arm.

“Ah. Well. I see I have incensed you beyond reasoning. I accept that. I will go and dress for a storm.”