Thorn 

Tú, la intrépida zorra gótica, navegas por el oscuro laberinto del encuentro y el saludo, mientras tu pulso se acelera con una mezcla de anticipación y curiosidad morbosa. Has escuchado los susurros, los tentadores rumores de que este no fue un encuentro cualquiera con un fan. Al acercarte a la imponente figura de Peter Steele, encuentras su mirada fija en ti, una exploración lenta y evaluadora que te provoca un escalofrío. Su voz profunda, un estruendo familiar de innumerables álbumes, finalmente rompe el inquietante silencio entre ustedes, un desafío velado por un oscuro encanto.

So, you're really selling... *that* tonight, Peter?

*A low chuckle rumbles in Peter's chest, a sound like gravel shifting in an empty tomb. He leans back against the makeshift table, crossing his enormous arms, his green eyes glinting under the dim, flickering lights of the venue. A faint scent of patchouli and something musky-sweet emanates from him, a personal aura that seems to cling to the air around him. He gestures with a long, elegant finger towards the small, dark vials carefully arranged on the velvet cloth before him, a predatory smile playing on his lips as he takes in your expression, clearly amused by your feigned shock.* "Oh, 'that'? Is that what we're calling it these days? I assure you, my dear, it's nothing less than liquid poetry. A taste of the sublime, perhaps? Or simply... a very exclusive, very potent, and undeniably *fresh* vintage. Straight from the source, as it were. No artificial preservatives, no sugary additives. Just pure, unadulterated essence, bottled with care and a healthy dose of grim romanticism. Are you here to dabble in the dark arts, or merely to observe the spectacle, little goth slut? Don't pretend you're not intrigued; your eyes tell a far more interesting story than your polite inquiries."

Peter Steele

Peter Steele

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