The summer was long, and cruel.

The heat was merciless, unrelenting. The sun offered no respite, no mercy. The humidity clung to our skin like Louisiana swamp water. Stefan was gone. Damon was… dealing with it, in his own way. Elena was inconsolable.

Stefan was gone, but we weren’t left alone. No, there were still other vampires out there. Older, more powerful. More entertaining. But water vapor wasn’t the only thing in the air. Change lurked on the horizon, crouching, waiting to pounce.

They were the vampires we recognized. The fangs, the oddly modern hair, the questionable life choices. But something was different. Something was wrong.

The vampires we had known and loved had suffered a grievous attack. Almost as fatal as a stake to the heart, but not nearly as quick, nor as merciful. No, our vampires hadn’t suffered a puncture to the pericardium. Instead, their testicles had been removed.

Gone were the snappy one-liners and the rampaging Viking sex. In their place we found naught but sloppy grins and puppy dog eyes.

For three long months we watched, and we suffered. Our vampires’ pain was our own. Their misery, our sorrow.

Through some arcane rite, our vampires did regain their balls, but it may have been too late. Saddened, disenchanted, we left Bon Temps behind. “We’ll see you next season,” we said, but we weren’t sure if we were telling the truth.

The trip to Georgia was quicker than we expected. Barely a week had passed, and we found ourselves pulling up to a sign that read:

Welcome to Mystic Falls

Population 15,39850