Dracula (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} strigoi) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms,@ 2015-06-08 15:13:00 |
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Who: Dracula
What: Narrative.
Where: Transylvania, Romania.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: Hints of violence.
The party, in his mind, had been a success.
He had gotten close to Miss Ives in a very public setting, and no one, least of all her, had suspected anything was amiss. Dracula had laid the groundwork for further interactions. Distance did not serve him well, he would have to weave himself into the fabric of her life subtly, carefully, so that if the veil was lifted from her eyes it would be too late.
But, then... he was called home.
Far away from London, to the Carpathians, small towns and no bustling cities. Superstition and fear. Those who were loyal, and those who spat between their fingers and hissed curses. Denn die Todten reiten schnell. In his absence a handful of brave fools had thought themselves capable of storming his castle, of striking the beast when his back was turned; but they did not know the land as he did. He had lived upon rock and dirt for far, far longer. Were the rumors to be true he had ruled. Fought. Blood was spilled.
They could not take what was his.
The echoes of battle rang in the peaks, in his halls, but this was not battle. It was carnage. Men with their crucifixes, their prayers, did they not know that without faith they were weak? Did they think they could stand behind a God they did not truly believe in and be protected from evil?
He fed well. And those he had left behind, lesser than him, vampir, they gorged themselves. He allowed it this once.
His absence in London, however, could not stretch too long. Of course Dracula returned, to the home and the name he had cultivated for himself.
And he did not return alone. They melted into the shadows to wait, while he resumed his work.