It stands hidden within his soul of darkness as obsessive hatred tears through
his body like a knife turning, twisting, ripping flesh.
The skin tightens around his eyes, sweat beading. His teeth clench and grind,
like steel claws on slate.
Intense emotions well up inside him, like raging fire. Beyond death in a realm
the mind cannot describe. The air thick, heavy, the lingering scent of death.
Macabre tendencies arise and breathe from his mind plagued by tortured souls
and consumed by the cold hand of the dark demonic rule, amid it's reign of
terror, amongst the screams of pleading mercy.
His teeth, razor sharp, snow white but stained with blood. No remorse for it's
actions, no regret; this demon prowling; this damned VonZarovich.
"they took wives unto themselves, and everyone (respectively) chose one woman for himself, and they began to go unto them. And they taught them magical medicine, incantations, the cutting of roots, and taught them (about) plants. And the women became pregnant and gave birth to great giants whose heights were three hundred cubits. These (giants) consumed the produce of all the people until the people detested feeding them. So the giants turned against (the people) in order to eat them." - 1 Enoch 7:1-5
They fear us, Our blood. We are death to those who cross our boundaries. Neither Human, nor Undead, we exist beyond the realm of the living, beyond the realm of the dead. We are the Dark-Hunters. We are Eternal. Something far worse than death awaits. For once we cross over, There is no faith or courage that can return our souls. How can we miss what was never there? There is no way to bring us back into the light, besides we've grown rather accustomed to the night.
Yeah, yeah. Enough of the doom and gloom because, baby, while that can be us, for the most part, that ain't us. You want to know what a VonZarovich is is? We are what the intro says. We're Mad, Bad and Immortal. We're direct descendants of ancient warriors with attitudes. The people who fight rough, and play hard.
We are the scary things that go bump in the night. And we love every minute of it. So when you think you're being watched. You just might be. The question is...is it something evil or is it someone wicked?
When we enter the room, our movements dangerous, our voices cultured. But under this polished veneer lies a demonic presence, the ultimate bad boys. We're loners, tortured and brooding. Lurking through night, surviving on bone and blood, We embody dark, forbidden desires.
Why is it then when women encounter us, whoever she may be, is immediately drawn to this darkness? She is attracted to this preternatural beauty, excited by the mystery surrounding us, and sympathetic to our seeming loneliness. We are like no other man she has met, so they cry. What could possibly be sexier? Our breed is the perfect tortured hero. Complex and tormented. We are burdened with untold secrets and unfulfilled desires. Goodness and light lure us when it suits our purposes.
Yet, we know that we aren't mere men, but creatures that may not only steal her heart, but also her life by consuming that very same heart that seems to beat in the same pattern as a moth when it beats it's wings against a candle's flame. What's perplexing, is that usually moths end up dying, that beauty snuffed out, the wings singed and burned.
Men on the other hand, do one of three things, Loathe us, Fear us, or actually catch some testosterone and try to Kill us. We bring out what's the worst in men. Jealousy, Hatred, Impotent Paralyzing Horror. We find this amusing. Men go to war with us because one of us has stolen their woman's heart. What we can't seem to make most understand is: "Frankly Scarlet, we don't give a damn." They follow us, into our darkness. Desperation and dispair drives them to persue us, and usually it ends up in the poor fools demise. So far, no one's been lucky enough to get off a proper shot. Why the seperation of degrees?
We understand death. We understand war. We understand the depths of depravity. We understand what it is to be set apart from the rest of the chattle. We are the Princes of Barovia. The King's heirs. Our father, Strahd, alive for centuries, only knows his world. He refuses to change from the Old Ways. Why should he? It suits his purpose. His world has been filled with only sinister darkness. He embraces the maelstrom. Outwardly, he appears cool and collected, but inside rages an insatiable lust for bloodshed. To Conquer and Control. To Destroy. These are the things of which we were born.
This is where we learned our talents from.....
No M'lady, we are not emotionally torn. We are not caught between light and darkness. We are not searching for redemption.
So please, if you would, explain why so many are drawn?