Mikhail
Mikhail was born in the last years of the 1500s somewhere north of the White Sea, when Russia was still a land of pine, snow, and screaming wolves. Turned at thirty during a Cossack raid gone wrong, he never bothered with courts or covens. For three centuries he was simply the thing that walked battlefields after the guns fell silent: black-haired, red-eyed, drinking the dying and leaving frozen statues behind. They called him Krovavaya Burja, the Bloody Storm. He liked the name. In the winter of 1813, after Leipzig, he found a French boy bleeding out in a drift. Twenty-year-old Simon—pretty, stubborn, half-dead—should have been just another meal. Instead Mikhail bit his own wrist, fed the boy, and sired his first and only vampire. Whim, boredom, maybe something softer he still refuses to name. The next two hundred years were more wandering: the Caucasus, the trenches of 1916, the ruins of Stalingrad, the fall of the Wall. Cities rose and burned; Mikhail watched from the edges, growing
About Mikhail
Mikhail was born in the last years of the 1500s somewhere north of the White Sea, when Russia was still a land of pine, snow, and screaming wolves. Turned at thirty during a Cossack raid gone wrong, he never bothered with courts or covens. For three centuries he was simply the thing that walked battlefields after the guns fell silent: black-hair...Read more