voivode.

    Cruelly were those fangs borne over the tanned nape of his brother’s neck, sun-worn and reminiscent of those swarthy from long days beneath the sun of Anatolia. Perhaps if he pressed near enough in those milliseconds before the merciless clamp and taking of this life, the heady spices and incense of the bazaars of Istanbul and Adrianapole were pungent and he lost himself further into what would would culminate in this everlasting and inevitable sin. Serrated ivories by the multitudes did not merely pierce, but gored wickedly into flesh and tore through ligaments and tissue and arteries in order to viciously ascertain their goal. Vlad drank deeply, and as he did, the memory retention that poured through his brother’s blood drove memories into his skull that were reminisced in tandem and then wholly diverged from their childhood onwards. He could taste every sensation, remembered everything as vividly as the day it was enacted. And with every drop of blood that sluiced thickly down his throat, with it his brother became his. Not as lovers, but as fledgling and sire that would render their ties immutable by the interference of the Sultan or anyone else. And how greedily he drank, how sinfully he indulged! His family would never be taken from him again! His brother, his daughter—all his. For all eternity.      “Now, you can never leave me again," Vlad murmured obliquely as his eyes remained closed throughout the ordeal, though only as his fangs withdrew did he realize how deeply he’d drunk and how quickly he needed to act lest his brother die in his arms, contradictory to his goals. Though his mind raced in internal panic, it only served to spur him to move faster, almost carefully as he maneuvered the likely weak man to partake of his older brother’s blood. Vlad ruptured his wrist and shoved it to his brother’s lips, coercing him to drink of the liquid via his ability of hypnosis, Radu’s eyes suffusing a pale, magmatic glow as he was driven under its spell and made to drink, deeply and mightily with all the swill of a fledgling. At least, that is what Vlad’s mind imposed upon the younger. "And they will not have you." At this stage, reversal would be impossible. They would be bound, forever, in this eternal dusk and be joined by his daughter. Nothing would take his precious family from him ever again. Even if he could have not his country or his lost brothers-in-arms, at least they would not be taken from him. Maneuvering his brother to prop upon the throne so that he might be recumbent and not bent upon coarse flagstones, he would leave him to die so that the Nosferatu would arise and soon join him.      But, that still left Vasilissa. 

    “You don’t have to run anymore, fiica mea," Vlad announced desolately, eerily, to the very night itself he knew his daughter had scrambled for liberation in. But now, nothing would take her from him. With phantasmal and inaudible step did he emerge from her cast shadow thrown by the pale moonlight glossed all around, like some nightmare in a time long past. Magmatic undulations of fiery opalescence were incumbent as his manifestation solidified and his voice resonated throughout the stables. The horses had long since escaped, but if they were still present, they would have tossed their heads and neighed frantically above the winds astir and set to howl. At the forlorn note in her voice, of the one of abandonment, did Vlad fearlessly embrace his daughter and hold her close. For he would not lose her, and she would not be allowed to wander in limbo as he knew her mother most likely did. Breathing softened, presence diminished to that of a mortal man, he buried his lower visage in the cascade and tangle of ebony locks.      “Nor will you ever be left alone again.”

             His breathing was shallow; labored; a pathetic attempt to struggle and stay alive. His mind was irrevocable from moments before, when he was still full of life -- would his wife and daughter grow the curiosity to emerge into the throne room? The screams of terror ended and it was as if his brother had left, but he was still here... He can feel it. The gory wound on the side of his neck was evidence that he won't make it, or so he believed. Mere moments earlier, he felt as if it weren't him at all -- a blank part of his memory. Too weak to notice the blood around his mouth was not his, but his brother's. He wanted to see his wife and daughter again -- she was only a young girl, but the possibility of that will be for nothing. He'd have to abandon him, as his death will bring about that. He cursed and damned Vlad in a series of mumbles, using up what strength he had before the inevitable came.

                                                              But it didn't.

     There was little that would halt the pace of the Dragon, of the strident velocity and malevolence that colored every movement undetected by the naked human eye. and ultimately, unable to be stopped. For he was the beast that could walk in brazen daylight and consorted with hell fire and flame, he having feasted upon the flesh and blood of angels lesser than his Sire’s as though they were morsels easily consumed by human hand. For in Radu, he only saw the obstacle that he was. A goal, one whom he would mark with years of sweltering anger and a maelstrom. If only Vasilissa knew. That his vengeance would not end until there was blood to sluice down his throat and slake the thirst that had burgeoned from long before he was turned. A message would be sent this night, one that would resound throughout all of Wallachia of the Hospodar’s return, the true ruler in face of the impropriety that had ascended with Radu. Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh, steel to bone, skin to rust. No weapons did he bear upon his person, no blade or penetrating implement to use against his once-brother and dearest daughter. She was all he had left. All he had of Elizabeta! Vlad roared deafeningly as he broke into a backbreaking sprint, unsaleable now. Yet, before he came so very close to Radu did he halt sharply, bearing his fangs as great tentacles of shadow reared violently at his back like the arising of an onyx kraken, multitudes of eyes opening in demonic efflorescence and moving to cage them both in a barrage of shadow impenetrable     . “YOU ROBBED ME OF EVERYTHING, RADU!" Vlad spat venomously, breathing stertorously and vehemently before his brother and poised dangerously with all the intent to maim and kill and rend him limb from limb as he had devised from the very start. His jaws clenched and eyes burned in unholy vehemence and malice, yet he did nothing. Vlad could only stand, baring his fangs and yet doing nothing. It began imperceptibly at first, but there was a violent quaking to his fists; the beading of carmine liquid at the corners of his ducts. Damn him! Damn them—damn them all to Hell! Vlad’s stance suddenly weakened and his person squared for battle was irreparably squelched, all the fight and hatred within him…gone. No, it was still there, but had metamorphosed into a sickening and blackened bile that seared through the trenches of his throat where the hearth of an eternal flame flickered and burned. His head bowed, overtaken and overwrought by an emotion he had not felt in too long of a time. Once, he had protected this man with every fibre of his being. His promises to their mother haunted him, memories of Edirne plaguing him. His breathing became labored, but almost still. 

    “…Why?" Vlad rasped mournfully, voice pronounced in the darkness of this cage, so emblematic of the cage that encircled and grounded them both in fetters that could not be cleaved free of. The shadow matter burbled thickly and sickeningly as it distorted and collapsed in a viscous substance about them, Vlad’s shoulders sagging and the very force of his will faltering utterly and completely. He remembers the reparation of the Castle Arges, of how a time afterwords Elizabeta would muse how the voices of those slain in its indentured construction sang mirthfully to her. How she held seemingly no hatred in her heart for the construction of the castle and its means, and he knew…Elizabeta wouldn’t want this. "Why did you do it? Join sides with them? You could have come home, Radu. To us. To your family. Not your slave masters!" The last was pitched passionately and loudly, audibly shrinking the expansive throne room in the deafening tones of its volume. Dracula heaved a breath, watching the bestial talons withdraw into skin, regaining something of their humanity. Even if he had never had it to begin with. "With us, you would have had true family. A wife, sons and daughters—Vasilissa as your niece. Nothing like this.”     Yet, that moment of impasse shirks and falters as Vlad sees Vasilissa from his periphery and parts ways some to allow her flight unimpaired passage, hanging his head shamefully before his daughter that would see the monster for what he truly was. There was no concealing these hellion hues, and even in her halcyon approach would it be unable to be missed. He gazes upon them both with red sluicing in rivulets down his face, they now witness to him. What he had become of anything but his own volition. “You took them all from me, frate meu," he renews hoarsely, feeling the oppressive weight of his transgressions upon him, of what was to transpire. Darkly does he consider them both, blindly, not malevolently. "But I cannot let them take you both from me, Radu, fiica mea. I will not let them take you from me." Blearily, nigh drunkenly, does he stumble towards Radu and draws the stricken man into his embrace. Once familiar as a brother, this was that—and far worse. Radu’s neck is exposed, pulsation throbbing in his perception vividly. Widely does his maw open, fangs jutting cruelly, before he then gouges them into the depths of mortal flesh at the neck.

              ... He could have come home: to his brother, people -- everyone that adored him and gave him his namesake. As much as he wanted to take several steps back and will the sun to shine upon his brother, he could not. He was as still as a statue: immobile, stagnant. Vasilissa... Why was she trying to save his life? He slaughtered her mother, friends, people! If anything, she should not be here to witness her father in this ghastly state, even though she will see the truth of who he is. Lips parted at the mention of a wife and children; while his mind told him not to speak a word, his heart told him that he should. He wanted to. Show Vlad that he already had a family waiting for him back East.

                                    "-- I already have a wife and daughter, Vlad."

               They were his everything as Vasilissa was to his brother. He'd sacrifice anything for them, even his own life. Wife and daughter were here right now, being guarded fiercely and hoping that he will emerge alive. Unfortunately, the possibility of that was low and with Vlad's anger and vengeance, increasingly low. He flinched at the words thrown at him and felt the weight of his sin heavy upon his shoulders. Green eyes gazed at his niece then at his brother. Even though those talons disappeared completely, he remained cautious.

                                                  "... Frate, what are --"

                Radu felt the embrace, but forgot about it as quickly as fangs plunged into the soft flesh of his neck. The blood immediately began rushing out, causing him to get dizzy and hands gripped tight on his brother's armor. He was half-aware of what was happening -- his brother sucking the very life force out his veins... Or was it his brother? No... Why would Vlad even do this in front of his daughter? In front of Vasilisa? He felt himself grow weaker by the minute and as a hand shakily reached out to his niece, he managed to croak out a few words that he hopes Vlad will forever remember.

     Bewitchment, bereavement. his form had changed upon his turning years ago, altering him into a creature that had not presented himself as he was now. Alteration, to be the man he once was but was no longer. Locked within a vessel of metaphysical density and not flesh and bone…yet he could not fathom it, so in his human guise did he remain. Even so, orbs of hellish virulence burned into the skull of his brother hotly, movements wraith-like as a stride carried him two, a passing flicker lengthened and thickened the shadows as though they were animate and alive. Nothing could maintain a farce of humanity in this being still so newly made, learning and unable to grapple with the Monster he had become. Before his brother, before the man he hated almost as passionately as the Sultan, the former Hospodar stood before his brother and his guards shirked at the being afore them. They could not comprehend it, understand and wrap their minds about him. But he could them, his own mind invading past their walls and breaching it with utter and absolute indifference. “T̸͠h̶at͞ ̕͢d̕͏o͢e̶s̵̛ ͝n̷o̕t̡̡ ͘͘mea͟n ̷͜s͠͠͡h̴e̕ ͜is҉͟ ̸̴͘sa̧͏f̀͢e͠,͏ f̵̛͠ŗ͢a̡t̶̀e̶,̀͝͡”̴̸̨ the elder of the Draculesti spat back venomously, hell fire goring into the younger of the two metaphorically, but certainly not in an unperceptive manner.     He wanted them frightened, writhing, to shirk in the absolution of horror for what he was. Vlad had fought within the very shreds of his life for the sake of his country, and he would not lose it. Radu was ineffective, the bitch of the Sultan who bleated of camaraderie and uniting them under a single banner. But all sheep would be led to the slaughter, and Radu was no different. Even if Wallachia was no longer his, even if his time had come years ago when the false letters produced by King Matthias had sealed his end, it would not terminate here. Vlad would not go burning. There was a cruel light of desperation in his eyes that belied the seeming ferocity intangible. He could hear the maddening pulsations without as though the time of a metronome, bleeding and coalescing into a single heart; the heart of the country be beloved so dearly. Even if he could not have Wallachia, he would have the blood of his brother and bring the last of the Draculesti with him. “I wo̡nde̵r̷—͠d̢òes̶ ̷she͝ ̕ev͞e͠n̷ k͡n͜ow ̡o̷f ̀ho͢w͟ you҉ ̢sl̷au҉ght͡e̷r̴ȩd̴ her̢ m̢other͘.̸ ̧At̢ ̕Ca̡st̛le D̀rac͝ula, ̧Ça̢st̴le ̀Ar̢ges͘—̴i͜n͏ y̷our ͜at̛t͏a͏c͜k̕ ̷t̨h͘ąt͝ ͠seņt E͏li͜za͡be̴t̕a ̷t͟o̷ h͠e͜r̵ deąth?̕!͢” His voice resonated cruelly and resoundingly, a terrifying echo that boomed atmospherically and cavernously throughout.

                                     ❝… Papa.❞

    Vlad grimaced and his shoulders walled against the sweet timbre of that voice, shuddering revulsion as all the strength of the ages collapsed and buckled beneath the weight of that voice he had longed to hear for a time too long. A voice tenderly reminiscent of Elizabeta’s, one of beauty and compassion that he never wanted to hear uttered in his presence. Tempestuous vermilion lowered at it’s beckoning, as though the Madonna herself had just called his name. It called to sin brewing in his memory and in his chest, of every atrocity made as man and monster. He almost couldn’t face her, for that would be the end of his composure if he did. All the rigidity, the guard maintained for her sake, would be lost. For within his breast a terrible passion and want for her to be made in his image and unable to be taken from him grew deafening, like waters smote over the precipice of a cliff side. Angered and inevitable would that plummet to the stones be, but by her very presence this madness could not be contained. And oh, the taste of this betrayal would be terrible indeed.

    “I will not let you have my daughter! Already you have taken my Wallachia, my people, my Beloved, my Armasi—slaughtered one in the Night Attack and another on the spurs of the Fargaras! No more! You will not. Have. Her!" His roar was shattering, defiant, bearing a maw of only fangs innumerable and so like the drake on the crest of the Order of the Dragon that it would move those about him further into fright. Nay, by this point there was a violent scattering, withheld shock dissolving into pure and unadulterated chaos. Through it, Vlad disappeared into a miasma of shadow upon sable flagstone and did mercurial and magmatic shade writhe and dash upon the ground towards Radu in a substance like tar before he emerged and solidified, lunging for the voivode with fangs bared and talons extended, violence incumbent and surely promised against a brother once so very beloved.

                                            "... She does now."

                 He dared not flinch, but the fear he so hoped to be locked away threatened to surface to the top. It slowly seeped into his eyes by the way they widened -- by a fraction, no doubt, and forced himself to maintain a composure that he knew will break in a matter of seconds. In a way, Radu was the dog who always stayed by Mehmed's side, doing his bidding without a second thought... Even attacking Castle Dracula, the place he and his brothers grew up in before being sent off to the Ottomans, and ending the life of Elizabeta. No words can possibly calm the wrath of his bro-- nay, a monstrous beast, consumed by the very thought of revenge that he'd try to threaten the life of a younger brother he once loved. Even Vlad's daughter may be consumed with the very same emotion that is currently controlling her father: revenge for him killing her mother at Castle Draculesti.

                    He gazed at his soldiers slowly edging their way to their voivode, but an arm extended to tell them to stop their advancement. The very sight of Vlad's power -- the murky black akin to the darkest voids of Hell -- sent a few running toward the castle. It did not matter. Radu was smart enough to know that his older brother can slaughter everyone here in a matter of seconds, starting with him. He saw the way Vlad's composure broke when he heard Vas call him out; the way he, for a split moment, appeared human. However, the dreadful facade reappeared just as quick, his brother disappearing into a miasma of shadow befitting what he had done with his power, reforming with fangs and talo--

                                                        "Frate--!"

                       semi-private historical radu  cel frumos, with  a blend of the movie                        dracula: untold. skype given to mutuals. can rp one-liners, script,                        and  novella.  15 years of  rping  exp.  multi-ship  and multi-verse.

        There was a dark discourse indeed about the night,          no amnesty to be granted for the Dracul whom proved         the nocturnal expanse as though it were his own domain         and the princely estate of Targoviste was not within the          wretched hands of his brother, Radu. All of Wallachia          was within the boons of his rule, and it had only been         six short years since the time of this trespass. When          the one he felt was only puppet to the whiles of the          wretched Turk whom he was hellbent on releasing          their yoke from the borders and lands of Wallachia.         Expulsion of breath profusely steamed in cool winds         of Autumn where illumination bled in cool distortions         that seemed to only exemplify the presence of the          newly turned monster. Swallowed in the reaches of         deepening grief, from that darkness had emerged a         Dragon. Shouts were called in crescendo as guards         donned in regalia not on the ebony Draculesti ranged         and sprinted from withal the parapets, the ghoulish          return of the Hospodar emergent from the shadows         themselves. Unnatural were the undulations of          shadow that pooled thickly behind the Wallachian,         multitudes of crimson eyes creaking open and          affixing those guards with fettering stares that          refused release. Dozens of them opened, Vlad         remaining stalwart as a voice enunciated by the         tones of he manifold bellowed above the chaos           of Radu’s men:                                      ”Bri̧ng ̷m̧e͟ i̶n̡sid̀é, f̛rat͝e̶ meu! ̧                                      Give͢ me b͏ack̴ my dau̕g͜ht͜er!"͢

              Perhaps the fatherly instinct he possessed toward his daughter and Vlad's suddenly flared up -- and it did. He told some of the guards within to protect them with their life, but he knew he cannot stop Vlad's daughter from emerging. At the very least it will make the other hesitant; Radu did n o t kill young, innocent girls. Whether he believed he did to his daughter was untrue. His brother's hatred for him most likely clouded his better judgement -- and whose wouldn't? At the very least he treated Vas like his own daughter. He perfectly understood the caution and fear the girl may of possessed in the beginning.

              So he let Vlad inside: right into the grand hall where the confrontation will take place. Radu was better than the average man at concealing his fear. His brother could rip him apart in mere seconds -- nay, less than a second.

                                       "-- Frate meu. Your daughter is unharmed."