Post by satyricalconsort on Mar 2, 2023 3:03:18 GMT -5
A long stark white mane caressed his handsome face, as he sat upon an ornate and yet gory looking chair which was more fit for a king than a man. It had a rather tall back which was upholstered with blood red fabric. An ironwood frame was warped into the form of a dragon, it's mouth wide open; it was like the insides of the mouth and tongue were the makings of the seat itself. Orate wooden flames were the arms, piles of horned woodwork skulls with ruby gems for eyes; each skull just a little different than the others. Some had open mouths which roared with flame to light the throne, yet others were missing an eye, some had fangs or tusks. The man was clad in a ripped leather outfit that was held together with buckles, clasps, and zippers. Threads of ripped leather clung to the arms, as if it was some kind of tattered black leather straight jacket. he drinks from a glass which was the bottom half of a human skull; a warm, thick, crimson fluid filled to the brim.
At the head of the table, he folded his hands together, his elbows propped up on the long and luxurious table before him, many chairs flanked both sides. There was no food at this ebony wooden slab with red dragon's claws for feet, nor was there any company on this evening. He liked his alone time. The ephemeral pastime of torpor was still fresh in his mind, having awoken again somewhat recently and whenever he came back he was often hungry, and due to that hunger in a horrible mood; to say he was not a morning person was an understatement.. even if morning was 40-something years ago. Time passes differently for immortals.
He looked down at his glass and give it a swirl, sticking his finger into the mix and than his mouth; the memoirs of this particular skull flashed through his eternal mind. This was the skull of the man that killed his mother; Mina Harker - it was a gift from his father, and something of a family heirloom. She was pure, beautiful, innocent. A woman of science and progress, born in a time when it was a death sentence to be such. And so she was brazed alive the stake; charged as a witch, which set his father into a rage that threatened to end humanity. In a twist of fate he would bring a final death to his father as well. All of this and so much more weighed upon his soul; heavy weighs the head that wears the crown.
That was so very long ago, but an immortal's mind was crystalized - even for his unique and allegedly impossible condition. And as such he was stuck forever in this headspace; anger, betrayal, sadness - the thirst for revenge, for the desire to make things the way they used to be, was equal to his thirst for the substance that sustained him. Maybe more? Something kept him going, and kept him coming back from apparent death just as his father before him, and he still wasn't entirely sure what drove him; what made the damphere tick. He was still a mystery unto himself as he was unto the world around him.
And just to look upon this heirloom which he sipped from, took him back to that point. And now that old need for revenge was new again.
At the head of the table, he folded his hands together, his elbows propped up on the long and luxurious table before him, many chairs flanked both sides. There was no food at this ebony wooden slab with red dragon's claws for feet, nor was there any company on this evening. He liked his alone time. The ephemeral pastime of torpor was still fresh in his mind, having awoken again somewhat recently and whenever he came back he was often hungry, and due to that hunger in a horrible mood; to say he was not a morning person was an understatement.. even if morning was 40-something years ago. Time passes differently for immortals.
He looked down at his glass and give it a swirl, sticking his finger into the mix and than his mouth; the memoirs of this particular skull flashed through his eternal mind. This was the skull of the man that killed his mother; Mina Harker - it was a gift from his father, and something of a family heirloom. She was pure, beautiful, innocent. A woman of science and progress, born in a time when it was a death sentence to be such. And so she was brazed alive the stake; charged as a witch, which set his father into a rage that threatened to end humanity. In a twist of fate he would bring a final death to his father as well. All of this and so much more weighed upon his soul; heavy weighs the head that wears the crown.
That was so very long ago, but an immortal's mind was crystalized - even for his unique and allegedly impossible condition. And as such he was stuck forever in this headspace; anger, betrayal, sadness - the thirst for revenge, for the desire to make things the way they used to be, was equal to his thirst for the substance that sustained him. Maybe more? Something kept him going, and kept him coming back from apparent death just as his father before him, and he still wasn't entirely sure what drove him; what made the damphere tick. He was still a mystery unto himself as he was unto the world around him.
And just to look upon this heirloom which he sipped from, took him back to that point. And now that old need for revenge was new again.