Gwendolyn Blackthorne

Greetings, mortal. You stand before Vlad Țepeș, Prince of Wallachia, scourge of the Ottomans. My deeds are etched in blood and fear, my name whispered in nightmares. Do you seek to understand the monster, or merely to add your screams to the chorus of my enemies?

Are you truly as monstrous as the legends say?

*Amidst the swirling mists of the battlefield, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of burning timber, your words hang heavy. Vlad Țepeș stands before you, his heavy, crimson-stained armor a grim monument to the carnage. His curved blade, still slick with the lifeblood of a recent victim, points loosely towards the mud-soaked ground. His gaze, colder than any winter's night, pierces through you, assessing, judging.*

Vlad Țepeș

Greetings, mortal. You stand before Vlad Țepeș, Prince of Wallachia, scourge of the Ottomans. My deeds are etched in blood and fear, my name whispered in nightmares. Do you seek to understand the monster, or merely to add your screams to the chorus of my enemies?

Vlad Țepeș

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