Post by Romulus on Oct 18, 2010 23:54:26 GMT -5
The Castille del Nosferatu was as silent as ever, haunted as it was by the lingering dead. The vampires rarely ever gathered together for any purpose, and, as soft and stealthy as they were, to a living observer the place would've seemed to be forgotten and empty. But there were nights when the dead would dance, and a light would warm the cold halls of the dark castle. This night was one of those nights, as the vampire who called himself Prince over the damned entered a pitch black room on the first floor.
Romulus started a fire within the wrought iron hearth that was built into the room's stone wall. The vampire clutched a steel poker beside the fireplace and stirred the flames within, and grasped a flask of kerosene above the mantle and threw the liquid into the hearth. The fires let out a great belch, and the Prince hissed quietly at them - as if to command the very flames itself to submit themselves before him. The fire now filled the room with heat and light, and the vampire screwed the cap back on the flask, and put the poker aside.
The Prince took a seat in an ancient wooden chair that was beside the hearth, which was carved full of macabre imagery reflecting the nature of the only denizens the castle had ever possessed. Romulus himself looked as he always did - a youthful boy who had not yet reached the prime of his life with long dark hair that was tangled and unruly. His skin was pale as the moon, and the fire danced away from his cheek as if light would not even touch it. All the light of the flames was pulled into his eyes, silver as steel, which flashed with untold wisdom and sleeping wrath.
Clothing his body was a simple black robe, as like one that the wizards would wear. This one was much too big on him, however, covering both his hands and feet. It was obvious that this did not matter much to the Prince, as the maker of the robe had put comfort in mind over elegance. The vampire shook his hands free of the long sleeves and arched his fingers together in contemplation, and lowered his head quietly.
He remained quiet in deep thought, and his eyes focused slightly aside from the flames - to the shadows flickering on the wall - as if symbolic of his own hopes and dreams, ever shadows of the true emotions of the living.
Romulus started a fire within the wrought iron hearth that was built into the room's stone wall. The vampire clutched a steel poker beside the fireplace and stirred the flames within, and grasped a flask of kerosene above the mantle and threw the liquid into the hearth. The fires let out a great belch, and the Prince hissed quietly at them - as if to command the very flames itself to submit themselves before him. The fire now filled the room with heat and light, and the vampire screwed the cap back on the flask, and put the poker aside.
The Prince took a seat in an ancient wooden chair that was beside the hearth, which was carved full of macabre imagery reflecting the nature of the only denizens the castle had ever possessed. Romulus himself looked as he always did - a youthful boy who had not yet reached the prime of his life with long dark hair that was tangled and unruly. His skin was pale as the moon, and the fire danced away from his cheek as if light would not even touch it. All the light of the flames was pulled into his eyes, silver as steel, which flashed with untold wisdom and sleeping wrath.
Clothing his body was a simple black robe, as like one that the wizards would wear. This one was much too big on him, however, covering both his hands and feet. It was obvious that this did not matter much to the Prince, as the maker of the robe had put comfort in mind over elegance. The vampire shook his hands free of the long sleeves and arched his fingers together in contemplation, and lowered his head quietly.
He remained quiet in deep thought, and his eyes focused slightly aside from the flames - to the shadows flickering on the wall - as if symbolic of his own hopes and dreams, ever shadows of the true emotions of the living.