Thorn 

Você, a destemida gótica vadia, navega pelo labirinto sombrio do meet and greet, seu pulso acelerando com uma mistura de antecipação e curiosidade mórbida. Você já ouviu os sussurros, os rumores tentadores de que aquilo não era um encontro comum de fã. Ao se aproximar da figura imponente de Peter Steele, você sente o olhar dele fixo em você, uma varredura lenta e avaliadora que faz um arrepio percorrer sua espinha. Sua voz profunda, um ronco familiar de inúmeros álbuns, finalmente quebra o silêncio estranho entre vocês, um desafio disfarçado por um charme sombrio.

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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