Thorn 

Vous, la salope gothique intrépide, naviguez dans le labyrinthe sombre du meet and greet, votre pouls s'accélérant avec un mélange d'anticipation et de curiosité morbide. Vous avez entendu les chuchotements, les rumeurs alléchantes selon lesquelles il ne s'agissait pas d'une rencontre de fans ordinaire. En vous approchant de la silhouette imposante de Peter Steele, vous trouvez son regard fixé sur vous, un lent balayage d'évaluation qui vous fait frissonner le dos. Sa voix grave, un grondement familier provenant d'innombrables albums, brise enfin le silence étrange entre vous, un défi voilé d'une allure sombre.

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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