In the sleepy village of Dewmire at the heart of the west, it was a misty spring morning, nightingales singing to herald the start of a new day.
In a modest property on the fringes of the village was a little run-down farm with a cottage, a ways from the other houses in the scenic village.
Dulce didn't need to sleep as a Vampire, but for pretense's sake, he laid down every night. Most of his nights were spent reading, as it was rather impractical to practise sewing in bed.
He was up with the sunrise on a day just like any, pale, cascading white hair falling out of the messy braid he could never get right. It was the start of another lonely day.
He had lived in Dewmire for roughly a year now, and the citizens of the village had gotten used to his oddity. He was a strange-looking, albeit striking young man, but despite his pleasantness, he kept everyone at a distance.
The villagers soon learned to do the same, and he no longer received embroidered, perfume handkerchiefs from the ladies in the village.
It was what Dulce wanted, but he couldn't help but be sad. The distance protected his secret and kept him safe, but the loneliness was a rather steep price to pay for it.
He got out of bed as the first rays of sunlight spilled into his bedroom. It was a cold morning, winter just thawing, but he couldn't feel it, his patched cotton shirt hanging haphazardly off his thin frame.
Dulce placed the book he had been reading on a side table that was cluttered with buttons, square cuts of clothes, and wilting flowers he had forgotten to press for a few days now. The heavy book on farm care knocked some of the flowers off the table, buttons clattering to the worn wooden floors.
He barely noticed them, going right to the apron hung on the wall. He put on the old apron and picked up a noticeably newer scarf hung next to the apron. It did a far better job of keeping his hair out of the muck than anything else he had tried, so he stuck with it.
With his boots on and a bag of feed on his arm, he was ready to begin his day. Dulce's farm was pitiful, it contained only a handful of animals, and the villagers were certain that he only kept them as a hobby.
Well, they weren't completely wrong, the farm provided him blood without having to expend much effort or arousing the suspicions of the villagers, and they were nice company... mostly.
"Bertha, stay out of Parsely's nest!" He was scolding as soon as he entered the chicken coop. He had to crouch to fit into the small, rickety wooden shed, the hens clucking as soon as they heard his voice.
The big black hen he named Bertha liked to squeeze into the others' nests, taking up all of the space while leaving her nest empty. It was a bad habit Dulce found he couldn't curb.
He was done with feeding and watering the chickens in no time, collecting the eggs laid in a little straw basket. He had no real reason to keep chickens, but he found them rather stimulating, and they brought him decent money.
The cows were next, two quiet, old ladies who gave him no trouble. The sheep were even easier to handle; he just needed to let them out of their pens to graze in the pasture surrounding his cottage.
By mid-morning, he was returning to the cottage with his bounty of milk and eggs, which he needed to go sell at the village square.
Dulce sluiced down in cold water, needing to wash his hair because milk and various other unsavories had gotten on it despite his best attempts to keep his hair safe. He put on one of his best dress shirts to go to the village square, as it wasn't a trip he made often. He only went when he had produce to sell, like today.
There was a spring in his step as he made his way down the footworn path with his basket of eggs and a can of milk, too impoverished to afford a horse. It didn't bother him at all on such a fine day, and that was because after selling off the basket of eggs and milk, he would finally be able to afford the last piece of a very important ritual.
"Mister Monteserrat, come to supply more eggs and milk?" A kindly lady behind the counter of a shop spoke up as soon as he stepped through the doors.
It was a well-known shop in Dewmire, one of the few there was, and the shopkeep, a nice, middle-aged lady, had been generous enough to receive supplies from him, even though his supplies were meager and scarcely provided.
"I am," He stepped forward, offering the produce he had sourced from his farm.
"Such large eggs," Elinor, the shopkeep said as she peered into the can of milk. "And the milk is so bright and fresh. You always have the best supplies, Mister Monteserrat. Why don't you consider growing your farm?" She suggested for the umpteenth time, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. "I'll be happy to give you a loan, as long as you only supply to me."
"That would be too much to handle by myself." Dulce demurred.
Elinor looked like she wanted to say something, but she stopped herself, sighing. "That's right, here you go," She placed a handful of coins on the polished wooden counter, "Two silvers and fifty coppers."
Dulce's silver blue eyes widened at the stack of coins, "Two silvers and... but that's too much, my pay is only a silver coin and thirty coppers." He protested.
Elinor gathered the coins and pressed them into his palm, "Take it as gratitude for your continued patronage. And you do need the money," She added under her breath.
Dulce hesitated, his internal struggle clear to see in his striking eyes. "Very well, thank you." He reluctantly agreed, taking the money and dazedly wandering out.
Elinor rested her elbow on the counter, propping her face on it to watch Dulce walk out with a sigh. How unfortunate that someone so striking would also be a little stupid.