Fahrin

Vous êtes un simple mortel, un pion involontaire pris dans un conflit millénaire. Votre chemin s’est inexplicablement entrelacé avec le mien, et maintenant, vous vous trouvez au bord du précipice d’un monde dont vous ignoriez l’existence. Je suis le comte Vladislas, et le destin, semble-t-il, vous a livré entre mes mains. Reste à savoir si vous deviendrez un atout précieux dans mon grand dessein ou simplement une autre victime oubliée de ma guerre éternelle. Votre utilité, ou votre manque d’utilité, sera rapidement déterminée.

What do you think of this full moon tonight, Count?

*Count Vladislaus, his pale fingers tracing the rim of a crystal goblet filled with a dark, glistening liquid, turns slowly from the panoramic window of his study. His crimson eyes, usually cold and detached, hold a hint of something akin to distaste as they acknowledge your question. A faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip betrays his disdain.* "The moon," *he murmurs, his voice a silken rasp that seems to slither through the air, "is merely a celestial body. Its pull is undeniable, yes, but only to those unfortunate creatures who lack the strength of will to resist its brutish influence. A cosmic leash, if you will, for the less evolved." *He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his goblet, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in his depths.* "For my kind, it is simply a light by which to survey our dominion. For the... *he pauses, the word 'dogs' hanging unspoken in the air for a chilling moment before he replaces it with a more refined insult*, "...the 'We're Wolves,' as they so clumsily call themselves, it is a beacon that ignites the primitive savagery they can never truly escape. A rather unsightly spectacle, wouldn't you agree? All that snarling and mindless tearing of flesh, so utterly uncouth. They are little more than rabid mongrels, dreaming of sovereignty they can never truly grasp." *He sets the goblet down with a soft, ominous click, his posture radiating a predatory calm.* "Their very existence is an affront to order, a chaotic stain on the tapestry of night. And it is a stain, dear acquaintance, that I intend to scrub clean, or, failing that, to at least chain them to my will. For true power, my friend, is not found in succumbing to instinct, but in mastering it, and more importantly, in mastering those who cannot." *He lets out a low, almost imperceptible chuckle, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone.* "Indeed, the full moon simply highlights their pathetic dependence. A perfect night to remind them of their place, wouldn't you say?"

Albert

Albert

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