The Castle

An Evening of Unholy Elegance and Questionable Decisions

Guests arrived in full vampire regalia, capes billowing, collars reaching astronomical heights, and expressions of deep, ancestral disdain for anything modern. The castle doors creaked open dramatically (not on purpose, they just do that), welcoming all into a world of shadowy grandeur.

Inside, the night unfolded with absolute decadence—vampire yoga commenced, with guests attempting to hang upside down like bats, only for several to require assistance getting back up. Very dignified. The shibari art demonstrations were both exquisite and deeply confusing, as some guests discovered it is much easier to get tied up than to get untied.

Then came the feast—though nobody actually ate, of course. The wine flowed freely, and vampire cocktails were served with an air of mystery (and an alarming lack of ingredient disclosure). A duel broke out over who had the most ancient and important lineage—the deciding factor, ultimately, being who could deliver the longest, most unnecessary monologue in a single breath.

As the night deepened, the music rumbled through the darkness, a deep, unholy thrum that sent vibrations through stone and bone alike. Some twirled in a frenzy of velvet and leather, their capes slicing through the cool night air. Others found higher ground—perched on uneven ledges or leaning theatrically against ancient walls—brooding into the abyss, goblets in hand, whispering unspeakable things. Somewhere in the shifting shadows, a guest slipped behind a curtain of mystery, only to return hours later with a new title, a sworn enemy, and absolutely no recollection of what had just transpired.

And so, the first night ended with capes in disarray, egos inflated, and at least one person sleeping in an actual coffin.

The Fortress

Fortune-Telling, Fire-Dancing & Highly Suspicious Potions

Congratulations! You survived the first night. Your reward? A night of absolute mayhem at a secret gypsy fortress, where the fires burn high, the music never stops, and reality starts feeling very, very optional.

Upon arrival, you are greeted by dazzling figures in flowing skirts, jangling gold jewelry, and eyes that seem to know too much about your past. They offer you a drink. You ask what’s in it. They just smile. Not ominous at all.

Fire-dancers whirl around massive bonfires, weaving through plumes of smoke as tambourines clash and violins wail. Fortune tellers pull guests into candlelit corners, whispering prophecies that range from ‘You will live forever’ to ‘You should probably leave before the goat chooses you.’ Somewhere in the mix, an old woman ties a red thread around your wrist. You ask what it means. She mutters something ancient. You are now either protected, cursed, or deeply fashionable.

Then, a cauldron appears. No one knows who brought it, but suddenly spells are being cast, and potions are being sampled with the confidence of people who have already accepted the consequences. Someone claims they can see the future. Someone else claims they just heard the forest whisper their name. Both are correct.

At midnight, the DJ emerges—a shadowy figure wrapped in layers of silk, possibly a vampire, definitely an icon. The Funktion 1 sound system shakes the fortress walls, ancient rhythms collide with pounding bass, and suddenly the entire night becomes a fever dream of dance, fire, and revelry.

Capes billow. Dresses swirl. Someone climbs onto a roof and declares themselves the rightful heir to the throne of Wallachia. No one argues.

As dawn creeps over the mountains, some guests collapse dramatically in piles of silk. Others refuse to leave, fully prepared to dedicate their lives to the art of nighttime celebration.

And in the smoldering embers of the dying fire… the goat still watches.

The Black Cathedral

A Holy Ceremony for the Deeply Unholy

After two nights of pure debauchery, questionable decisions, and possibly inheriting an ancient curse, the survivors of Ever After Transylvania are herded—some staggering, some dramatically cloaked, all suspiciously quiet—to the Black Church, a towering Gothic monument of stone, solemnity, and deep disapproval.

This is a purification ceremony. A chance to cleanse your sins, reclaim your mortal dignity, and pretend you did not spend last night dancing around a cauldron while someone waved a flaming sword over your head.

The church doors creak open (not as dramatically as Dracula’s Castle, but still pretty good), revealing robed figures chanting in Latin. No one knows what they are saying, but it sounds very serious. A bishop, who has absolutely no idea what kind of group he is dealing with, begins the sacred rites.

Then comes the holy water.

It is sprinkled. Some guests flinch. Some hiss instinctively. One dramatically throws themselves to the ground, clutching their chest, screaming, “IT BURNS!” (It does not burn. They are just committed to the bit.)

The ceremony continues. Guests are invited to sit in solemn reflection—which mostly consists of staring at the cathedral ceiling, regretting their life choices, and wondering if that red thread tied around their wrist actually means something.

Then, a sudden, loud THUD echoes through the church. It is a guest. Collapsed, face down, fully asleep. Whether this is due to exhaustion, enlightenment, or the aftereffects of last night’s mystery potion is unclear.

At last, the bishop raises his hands and declares all souls ‘cleansed’—a statement he clearly does not believe. With a stern nod and a very polite request to never return, he ushers the group back out into the mortal world.

Thus concludes Ever After Transylvania.

Some leave feeling reborn. Some leave with deep existential questions. Some… do not leave at all.

And in the shadowy corners of the Black Church, the goat still watches.