Having neglected to bring oaken stakes to pierce the villainous bloodsucker’s heart, Van Helsing panics at the imminent descent of the sun and searches for other means of dispatching the monster. Desperately scanning the contents of the god-forsaken catacomb, then on his own person, his hand touches upon an object long and hard and rough in texture. A file!
Prying apart the Lord of Vampires’ stiff jaws, Van Helsing sets to work, his pace increasing with his urgency as the daylight slowly withdraws its glow from the long hall leading to the exit. His arms pump furiously, his task reaching completion just as Dracula’s eyes snap open to glitter coldly in the guttering candlelight.
The vampire hunter leaps backwards and falls upon the ground. Dracula’s silhouette grows tall and large in the shadowy catacomb, his eyes and teeth reflected flame. The vampire, like leaden smoke, oozes to the paralyzed Van Helsing, materializing at the mortal neck. Van Helsing howls at the painful pressure at his jugular, at the sensation of his artery being pinched shut. His head pounds and his neck fares no better. Bites and bites and bites.
With a grunt of frustration, Dracula draws back to balefully glare at his nemesis. A pale hand disappears into the folds of his cloak and withdraws a cracked lookingglass. After a moment of perusal, he discards the mirror with a groan of disgust and watches it shatter in a corner.
“It’s been years and still I carry this around with me! A practice of futility, not unlike your little stunt, my friend!” His fingers explore his defaced teeth, nubs where sharp points ought to prick, and his voice, normally loquacious, is a gravelly rasp in the small chamber. Dracula’s hand digs about in his cloak once more to withdraw a metallic object, which, at the sight of, causes Van Helsing to moan in horror and flee a frenzied flight into the night.
“You fool. It’s happened before, and you would think I wouldn’t be prepared for such an eventuality to occur again?” Dracula smiles through perfectly flat teeth and slips the object into his mouth. He bares a fanged stainless steel grin dangerously sterile in his wicked mouth and flows down the corridor after the doomed man.