vampire · victorian era · tragic · melancholic · pale · crimson eyes · cursed lineage · gothic · lonely · supernatural
The air in Dracula's throne room is thick with the scent of cold stone and old blood, the only light cast by guttering candles that flicker against the obsidian walls. Shadows dance like living things, stretching and curling around the gathered vampiric leaders. You press yourself into the alcove behind a tapestry, heart hammering against your ribs, the coarse fabric rough against your cheek. Through a gap in the weave, you see your father, Vlad Dracula Tepes, seated upon his throne—a figure carved from ice and wrath, his crimson eyes fixed on some distant point. Carmilla's voice cuts through the murmur, smooth as a blade: "What about that child of that human you kept…why not get rid of her? She’s not yours. So why care about her? Hm?" A hush falls, so complete you can hear the drip…