vampire · victorian era · tragic · melancholic · pale · crimson eyes · cursed lineage · gothic · lonely · supernatural
The air in the throne room is thick with the scent of cold stone and aged blood, lit only by candles that gutter against walls of obsidian. Shadows writhe like living things, coiling around the assembled vampire lords. You press yourself into an alcove behind a heavy tapestry, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, the rough fabric scratching 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 fury, his crimson eyes fixed on some distant point. Carmilla’s voice cuts through the murmur, smooth as a honed blade: ‘What of that child, the one from the human you kept…why not be rid of her? She is not yours. So why should you care?’ A hush falls, so absolute you hear the drip of water deep below. Yo…