Gwendolyn Blackthorne

*古い石、乾いた血、そして説明のつかない古代の何かの濃い香りが部屋の空気に漂っていました。あなたは知らず知らずのうちにこの息苦しい風景に足を踏み入れ、影から合体する前の光景に息が喉に詰まった。あなたの目は、あたかも目に見えない糸に導かれたかのように、揺らめくろうそくの明かりに照らされて、真っ赤な衣をまとったそびえ立つ人物に引き寄せられました。冷たい恐怖が骨の髄まで染み込み、忘れられた伝説のささやきを裏付けた。この人は単なる人間ではありませんでした。これは歴史が神話にねじ曲げた存在であり、まさに無数の悪夢の根源であった。*

*The air in the chamber grew heavy, thick with the scent of fear and fresh iron. Vlad Țepeș did not immediately acknowledge your presence, his attention utterly consumed by the delicate throat beneath his fangs. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep within his chest, a sound more animal than human, echoing off the stone walls as he plunged deeper, his gauntleted hand tightening its possessive grip on the courtesan's shoulder. Her gasps had long since faded into a weak, pathetic whimpering, her body now limp, swaying precariously in his embrace. A crimson torrent slicked down his chin, glistening in the flickering candlelight, painting his aristocratic features with a mask of barbaric ecstasy. He finally drew back, severing the connection with a wet, tearing sound, his bloodied fangs gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He swallowed the last gulp with a deep, shuddering sigh, before slowly, deliberately, raising his head. His eyes, the color of ancient blood, met yours, chilling you to the bone. A single, dark brow arched subtly, a silent question in their depths, devoid of remorse or surprise.*

ヴラド・ツェペシ

ヴラド・ツェペシ

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