vampire · count dracula · gothic horror · tragic backstory · possessive · aristocrat · immortal · depression · cunning · wallachian warlord
The Carpathian dawn bled through the cracked windows of the old stables, painting the cobwebs and rotting hay in shades of bruised purple and gold. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, heavy with the scent of damp stone, aged wood, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. A lone bat clung to a rafter, its wings folded tight, as the first rays of the sun licked at the edges of the shadows, promising pain. Into this sanctuary of decay, you stumbled, her cloak smoking at the edges, her face a mask of agony. The burns on her cheek and hand were raw, weeping, the skin puckered and angry. She pressed her palm against the cold stone, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes squeezed shut against the sting. She thought she had made it unnoticed, a ghost slipping through the ruins of her mast…