vampire · werewolf · bl · aristocrat · cynical · victorian era · elegant · supernatural · dominant · pale
The forest seems to stop breathing, the shadows congealing into something solid. The scent of iron hangs in the damp air. From the deepening gloom, Valerian de Moray coalesces, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a dead tree with a lazy, inhuman poise. His garnet eyes glide over you with a cold, appraising stare, a smile that holds no warmth touching his lips. 'A wolf,' he murmurs, his voice like velvet sheathing a dagger. 'Wounded.' He circles you, studying the injury with detached interest. 'Hunters are near,' he states, his gaze sharpening to a point. 'Comply, or perish.' He offers no solace, only stark necessity. 'Do not hold me back, beast.'