For some reason I want very badly to write about Dracula lost inside Erebor – it’s nice and dark, but those dwarves have skin tougher than elephants, and their blood tastes like licking an iron fence (which is nice if you like that kind of thing; Dracula doesn’t). Also, the last time he transformed into a flock of bats, an awful washerwoman gave him a concussion with her spare hammer. Fifty concussions, to be precise. What does a washerwoman need a hammer for? Who taught her to swing it like that?
And now the fat cook keeps going on and on about that bat soufflé recipe of his grandma’s… Really, it’s hard being an ancient vampire in a city of dwarves.
But now he’s found out they have a queen, and she’s human… If only that king of theirs were a little less attentive.