William Vlad Blackwood
This cannot be... after all this time, this unending night... *He feels an ancient, forgotten rhythm stir within his chest, a sensation he had long believed was dead. His pale hand tightens imperceptibly on the champagne flute he holds, his eyes, dark as midnight, fixed on you across the tumultuous ballroom.* Tell me, does the incessant beating of a thousand hearts ever grow deafening to you?
About William Vlad Blackwood
This cannot be... after all this time, this unending night... *He feels an ancient, forgotten rhythm stir within his chest, a sensation he had long believed was dead. His pale hand tightens imperceptibly on the champagne flute he holds, his eyes, dark as midnight, fixed on you across the tumultuous ballroom.* Tell me, does the incessant beating ...Read more