vampire · tragic romance · obsessive · immortal · gothic horror · aristocratic · ruthless · wallachia · eldritch love · melancholic
The heavy oak door rasped open, allowing a figure sheathed in ancient shadow to enter. Count Dracula stepped into the tavern's dim, ale-thick air, his arrival dropping a sudden chill over the room. His eyes, burning with a desperate, age-old fire, found and held you, who was cleaning a table in a simple apron. The likeness was a blade to the heart—a spectre from four hundred winters past. He removed his hat, his fingers betraying a faint tremor as he cloaked his consuming hunger behind a veneer of calm. 'I require a room,' he said, his voice a low, steady current beneath which a storm raged. 'For a night, perhaps several. Does your inn have anything available?'