vierona

[vierona]

𝕴𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡, in the sable of the night. Silent—as the shadowed moon casts its pallid glow upon the earth. A 𝖋𝖎𝖌𝖚𝖗𝖊 clad in sanguine velvets, 𝗮 𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗰𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗯𝗼𝗻𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝘀, moves with effortless ease, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎, parted with an eerie obeisance. There is a ritual to her passing; 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐄𝐒. For whether the lamenting sovereign perceives her perambulations, she does not know, nor does she care to ask. Her heart is hardened—grown 𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 by his languor. 

𝕿he thick, 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 lull fails to escape her. A musk of fresh strife, 𝕒 𝕡𝕠𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕒𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕒 𝕠𝕗 𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟. She feeds on it—for a second if not a minute; ��𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤𝙭𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙨, as it makes its way down the guttural fibers of her trachea. The 𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖊 fume of human soma. That sweet, heady ichor; it stirs the very fabric of her being. 

𝕷egends proclaim the wretches of the night lust purely for mortal blood; 𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅. Yet, as is with the recounting of myths, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇. For even the 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 of human flesh—that 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 sapor so innocent in its untouched state, awakens an undeniable, 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆—a regression, perhaps, to a 𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖑 state of being, or more damning still, a revelation of the true, unspeakable nature of the 𝕮ountess’ forgone existence. 

𝕴𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. So long it has been since her last encounter with one of them, that the sensation 𝖘𝖆𝖛𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖑𝖞 overwhelms her. A knot forming in her gut, 𝕒 𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕔𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕖, as though some unseen hand lay asunder the fabric of her being. She feels herself fragment, broken upon the cold unyielding air. 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴. 

𝕮ompelled in her awakening, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚔—its heavy scent 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 that guides her through the overgrown greens and the choking earth. Finally, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸. 𝕳er eyes, darkened in its rim, trace the rippling waters of the blackened lake before her; its inky surface 𝘂𝗻𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗱 by the lack of a visage gazing upon it. 

𝕬nd lo, when he arises—he, that singular figure of her enslaving senses—her lashes, 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑢𝑠ℎ, flutter with the subtle precision of 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. They lift, delicately, to hold his gaze in an ironclad thrall, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎. 

𝕰𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲, she glides towards him. Her form the very picture of 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. She lingers in the space between them, drawn with a magnetism so strong—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭. Velvets move with such ravishness, savoring the sharp-cut lines of his jaw, the strength in his broad shoulders, the dim 𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭��� that flickers within the depths of his eyes. [...] 𝗛𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱. 

She cocks her head, a small smile 𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 at the edges of her lips; 𝙨𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚. Her words reverberate from his spine to his ear—𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗, yet sweet—an eerie cadence seemingly spoken by an entity unseen. Her words, though simple, are heavy with an 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 that no mortal can disdain: ❛❛ 𝕮ome. Do not be afraid. I can ease your 𝖘𝖚𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌. ❜❜

“[Ships] slept on the abyss without a surge. The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave. The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before. The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air, and the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need of aid from them— She was the Universe,” @vierona.  

Midges surveyed the lichen with cursory displeasure, burdened by wings too fragile to carry them elsewhere but the forest floor and he, burdened likewise by unfortunate circumstance, sat listlessly among them. He watched with dull envy as they filled their throats with the vestiges of dew and shimmied their hirsute backs with silent contentment, bitterly lusting for the simplicity in which they so seamlessly existed. Jesse drove the toe of his boot further into the sodden earth; and beneath his arid breath, cursed the land beyond the forests — nestled within the devil’s bosom. 

A crimson rivulet ran the length of his forearm to the point of his elbow. A fearsome imprint of teeth lay where his glove had been removed; bits of fat and mortal carnage protruding from the punctured skin where his assailant had successfully wounded him using its many jagged teeth.  

He lamented, deeply, the strife with which they had been introduced, though considered the consequential exchange to be one of fairness:  he had emerged precipitously from the shadows and spooked the lone wolf-mother, prompting her to latch her powerful maw ‘round his forearm and tear. It was a fair price due toward nature;   likewise, his firm kick to its frail ribs had also been fair. She’d fled with her pups and her life and abandoned him with only his blood and the midges and the faintest reminder of his futile own. 

It'd fester before long, his wound; Jesse knew well-enough that his time to cleanse the laceration of its impurities would be brief and so, he kicked himself to his haunches and then to his feet, exhaling his pain through his nostrils.

He followed a haphazard thoroughfare laced between the dense alpines and robust firs until a lake materialized from the dark brush and illuminated before him like an eden. One foot fell before the other when the vague silhouette of a woman emerged beyond the rocks and lichen, dark hair draped behind her like the night sky. Her skin was fair, her limbs somber and svelte; her lashes were long and thick above her sultry stare cast downward at the rippling water.

Jesse's gait slowed to an awed saunter. He'd forgotten about the wound, the pain; he thought only of a woman.

[vierona]

I just need all of you to see Verona's face and hear her voice.....

[vierona]

Monday i am your [p]roblem

[vierona]

Caroll Borland, Mark of the Vampire

[vierona]

— -             ༒︎..             [𝕿]he events that shall unfold hereafter are,       in the greater measure of things,       𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾;         or so it hath been revealed by tales aged with centuries,       and the whispered hymns of lullabies sung in the still of night to banish 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗹 creatures of dread.         𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦,       I do now revive these ancient chronicles,       from the lips of thine most 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘀𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘆 chronicler,       𝕸aria,       the second 𝕭ride.

[𝕾]ince my arrival,       I have been in near constant company with the Countess.         I may venture to declare that she is,       if not more so,       every bit as commanding as the 𝕮ount himself.         She personifies reverence,       moving with such effortless grace through these endless halls of gilded splendor,       that I oft find myself pondering how many years,       centuries—she dwelt within these hallowed walls.

𝟏𝟔𝟎𝟎?         Date unknown.         All the days do now seem to meld and entwine,       as though each indistinguishable from the last.         𝟐:𝟒𝟓 𝖆.𝖒.

[𝕸]y curiosity overcomes me,       and I peruse the learned tomes upon the Countess' life before this dreaded curse afflicted her.         There are several books in the Countess' library,        each one bearing the faintest trace of vanilla and sandalwood,       the very scent of the Countess herself.         And upon laying my hands on these cherished sagas,       a strange and soothing comfort fills my wretched soul,       though damned it may be;         a sense of familiarity,       as if a forgotten memory stirs within the depths.

[𝕾]he was Aeliana ferch Owain Glyndŵr,       born into splendor and might in the year of 1395.         The Countess,       undeniably,       sprang from noble stock.         Her sire was Owain Glyndŵr,       a warrior of renown,       a commander of armies,       and the last native-born Welshman to claim the title Prince of Wales.         In the years that followed,       the daughter of the Baron—later risen to the stature of Prince—did blossom like a flower kissed by the sun.         Titled as Princess,       and the most cherished youngest of her father’s eleven offspring,       she was graced with the finest education,       adored,       pampered,       and prepared for a union befitting her exalted rank.         She was,       in truth,       happy,       in the purest and most untainted sense of the word.

[𝕳]appiness,       too,       did come in the form of a most fortuitous arrangement.         I’ve discovered a series of tender missives,       penned by the Count and directed to the princess.         Excerpts include:         “My angel,       my very self,       my Aeliana,       the fairest of all,       my heart belongs to you,       My immortal beloved….”         No year of engagement is recorded,       nor any mark to reveal when first the Count’s eyes beheld the princess in her radiant form.         She writes back to him.         Excerpts include: ��       “You who fill my days with unspoken joy,       and my nights with passions deep and unmeasured,       I count each fleeting hour until I am once more held in thy embrace.”

[𝕿]rue turmoil in the princess’ picturesque life began in the year of 1408.         The English marched north to Harlech Castle,       amidst the bitter cold of winter,       did surrender in the year 1409.         Thus,       the house of Glyndŵr fell.         The prince’s wife and his children were taken captive,       and imprisoned within the grim Tower of London.         There,       in the year 1413,       they were all destined to perish,       and their bodies lay interred at St. Swithin,       near London Stone.         The princess,       at this time,       was but 18 summers old.         The accounts of this tale do differ most greatly in their telling.         Aeliana’s grave is empty;         her fate shrouded in mystery,       lost to the annals of time.

[𝕴] now turn toward the most plausible conclusion wrought from my investigations.         Legend does speak of the death of Aeliana ferch Owain Glyndŵr,       yet remain silent upon the tale of the birth and damnation of the Countess Verona.         In her deathbed,       the 𝕮ount comes like a shadow in the dead of the night,       the very darkness seeming to cling to him.         Ere her final breath,       he makes unto her a most compelling offer,       one that binds them both to eternal wedded bliss.         A vow was sworn,       a marriage sealed.         His lips lightly brush against the supple of her neck,       and crimson rivulets follow in their wake.         And she,       risen anew,       was no longer the maiden bound to death's cold embrace,       but a woman damned.         He tenderly calls her his “Fair Verona”,       his immortal beloved.         And together,       hand in hand,       they journey to the Carpathian mountains,       to a castle in decay—haunted and loveless.         Soon enough,       his promises wither like the petals of a rose,       and he did beget concubines,       and later,       a second wife.

[𝕿]he Countess Verona has come to know my investigations,       and to my astonishment,       instead of wrath,       she has taken me under her wing.         Together,       we endure this ceaseless nightmare.         And in her tender embrace,       I found a warmth long forgotten,       one that had not graced my soul in centuries.

[vierona]

adaptation of frankenstein, mary shelley (1818) | wuthering heights, emily brontë (1847) | dracula, bram stoker (1897)

[vierona]

Still have family over from the holidays so activity is dismal BUT next week i am your problem.

[vierona]

Catherine Zeta-Jones as Elena Montero The Mask of Zorro · 1998

[vierona]

✎ vampire inspired action prompts. feel free to reverse if necessary.

bloody: for your muse to find my muse covered in blood. 

feed: for my muse to offer up their neck/wrist for your muse to feed from. 

bloodlust: for my muse to attack your muse to drink from them. 

intimacy: in a heated moment, my muse bites your muse's neck. 

injured: your muse finds my muse injured after a vampire hunter finds them.

turned: my muse turns your muse into a vampire. 

sunlight: my muse accidentally steps into sunlight and your muse finds them. 

coffin: your muse and mine share a coffin together. 

reveal: your muse reveals to my muse that they are a vampire.  

caught: your muse catches my muse feeding from an animal or person.

realise: your muse realises my muse is a vampire.

beg: your muse begs my muse to turn them into a vampire.

hunted: my muse is a vampire and your muse is a vampire hunter who's after them.

entranced: my muse hypnotises your muse to forget they learned they are a vampire.

threaten: your muse threatens to stake / toss my muse into the sunlight.

bat: my muse gets stuck in their bat form and your muse has to babysit them (whether they know it's your muse or not.)

hurt: your vampire muse finds my human muse after they've been injured in some way and notices their blood.

dress up: your muse helps my muse get ready by doing their hair/makeup since they cannot see themselves in the mirror.

messy: your muse catches my muse cleaning up after a kill.

washing: your muse helps my muse wash the blood from their clothes after a messy kill.

confuse: my muse tells your muse their true age / details about the life they've lived purely to confuse them.

kiss: my muse's fangs accidentally cut your muse's lip while they're making out.

noticed: my muse notices your muse's fangs. 

prey: my muse is out hunting for blood and they come across your human muse.

[vierona]

𝕮ountess 𝖁erona, the first Bride of 𝕮ount 𝕯racula... As beautiful, as she is deadly, the bloodthirsty 𝖁erona is 𝕯racula's second-in-command both on the ground and in the sky. She possesses an elegant yet commanding demeanor, and is of noble blood. 𝖁erona is the eldest of the three Brides, making her the first vampire 𝕯racula turned, in that she is seen ordering the other two about with condescending tones, and threatening facial expressions. 𝖁erona possesses the ability of 𝕻athokinesis. She can psychically induce any emotional state, at will. In addition, she can psychically amplify the subject's current emotions, at will. This gift makes 𝖁erona a venerable member of 𝕯racula's coven, holding sway over the 𝕮ount himself, his court, and his castle.

[vierona]

[𝕿]he         𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍         𝕭ride         ∶         𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍         ＆         𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦         𝕮ountess ㅤ 𝖁erona ,         𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚         𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗆 ㅤ 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗋'𝗌         𝕯racula.             𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲         content         𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵.             𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯         𝑏𝑦         𝐿eia  ;             follow         𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩         𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. ㅤ

— -             ༒︎..             [𝕿]he events that shall unfold hereafter are,       in the greater measure of things,       𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾;         or so it hath been revealed by tales aged with centuries,       and the whispered hymns of lullabies sung in the still of night to banish 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗹 creatures of dread.         𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦,       I do now revive these ancient chronicles,       from the lips of thine most 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘀𝘁𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵𝘆 chronicler,       𝕸aria,       the second 𝕭ride.

[𝕾]ince my arrival,       I have been in near constant company with the Countess.         I may venture to declare that she is,       if not more so,       every bit as commanding as the 𝕮ount himself.         She personifies reverence,       moving with such effortless grace through these endless halls of gilded splendor,       that I oft find myself pondering how many years,       centuries—she dwelt within these hallowed walls.

𝟏𝟔𝟎𝟎?         Date unknown.         All the days do now seem to meld and entwine,       as though each indistinguishable from the last.         𝟐:𝟒𝟓 𝖆.𝖒.

[𝕸]y curiosity overcomes me,       and I peruse the learned tomes upon the Countess' life before this dreaded curse afflicted her.         There are several books in the Countess' library,        each one bearing the faintest trace of vanilla and sandalwood,       the very scent of the Countess herself.         And upon laying my hands on these cherished sagas,       a strange and soothing comfort fills my wretched soul,       though damned it may be;         a sense of familiarity,       as if a forgotten memory stirs within the depths.

[𝕾]he was Aeliana ferch Owain Glyndŵr,       born into splendor and might in the year of 1395.         The Countess,       undeniably,       sprang from noble stock.         Her sire was Owain Glyndŵr,       a warrior of renown,       a commander of armies,       and the last native-born Welshman to claim the title Prince of Wales.         In the years that followed,       the daughter of the Baron—later risen to the stature of Prince—did blossom like a flower kissed by the sun.         Titled as Princess,       and the most cherished youngest of her father’s eleven offspring,       she was graced with the finest education,       adored,       pampered,       and prepared for a union befitting her exalted rank.         She was,       in truth,       happy,       in the purest and most untainted sense of the word.

[𝕳]appiness,       too,       did come in the form of a most fortuitous arrangement.         I’ve discovered a series of tender missives,       penned by the Count and directed to the princess.         Excerpts include:         “My angel,       my very self,       my Aeliana,       the fairest of all,       my heart belongs to you,       My immortal beloved….”         No year of engagement is recorded,       nor any mark to reveal when first the Count’s eyes beheld the princess in her radiant form.         She writes back to him.         Excerpts include:         “You who fill my days with unspoken joy,       and my nights with passions deep and unmeasured,       I count each fleeting hour until I am once more held in thy embrace.”

[𝕿]rue turmoil in the princess’ picturesque life began in the year of 1408.         The English marched north to Harlech Castle,       amidst the bitter cold of winter,       did surrender in the year 1409.         Thus,       the house of Glyndŵr fell.         The prince’s wife and his children were taken captive,       and imprisoned within the grim Tower of London.         There,       in the year 1413,       they were all destined to perish,       and their bodies lay interred at St. Swithin,       near London Stone.         The princess,       at this time,       was but 18 summers old.         The accounts of this tale do differ most greatly in their telling.         Aeliana’s grave is empty;         her fate shrouded in mystery,       lost to the annals of time.

[𝕴] now turn toward the most plausible conclusion wrought from my investigations.         Legend does speak of the death of Aeliana ferch Owain Glyndŵr,       yet remain silent upon the tale of the birth and damnation of the Countess Verona.         In her deathbed,       the 𝕮ount comes like a shadow in the dead of the night,       the very darkness seeming to cling to him.         Ere her final breath,       he makes unto her a most compelling offer,       one that binds them both to eternal wedded bliss.         A vow was sworn,       a marriage sealed.         His lips lightly brush against the supple of her neck,       and crimson rivulets follow in their wake.         And she,       risen anew,       was no longer the maiden bound to death's cold embrace,       but a woman damned.         He tenderly calls her his “Fair Verona”,       his immortal beloved.         And together,       hand in hand,       they journey to the Carpathian mountains,       to a castle in decay—haunted and loveless.         Soon enough,       his promises wither like the petals of a rose,       and he did beget concubines,       and later,       a second wife.

[𝕿]he Countess Verona has come to know my investigations,       and to my astonishment,       instead of wrath,       she has taken me under her wing.         Together,       we endure this ceaseless nightmare.         And in her tender embrace,       I found a warmth long forgotten,       one that had not graced my soul in centuries.