... Listen! "

     there is something odd that crawls along her skin , like a feeling or a premonition crackling through the hairs on her arms like static — not quite speaking of danger , but things unforeseen , unpredicted , unboxed by the categories that make sense of her world . she’s so far from the untamed force he could have met just short of a month ago — restless and bold , a storm in black leather , devouring the world with blood - red juice running down her chin . she’s as likely to devour anything as a lamb now : skittish , broken by her own endeavors , washed out by the tide .

        and yet strangely unfrightened . not even her own sixth sense managing to truly put her guard up : there is something odd about this place , indeed , and a scent of things dying — but she moves so carelessly along the realms of death , she hardly feels like a foreigner here . and this man , if man he is : she could swear she’s sketched his face once before , in the corner of a notebook drenched in lyrics as mournful and unsettling as the land surrounding his residence . hollow eyes staring back from the page , piercing through her like needles in a strange magical ritual : is he a demon ? she’s never much been a believer of the otherworldly ( except ghosts , perhaps : she carries one of those in her ribcage , but then again that has more to do with religion — the way christians hold their virgin marys on their heart , and she holds her mother and her pious sacrifices in much the same way ) . still , as she dutifully follows him along the tortuous hallway of his mansion , morgan wonders in what , if anything , he might differ from a demon , or a ghoul , or a blood - thirsty creature of the night .

     she lets her hand graze over the stone walls as they walk through the hallways , fancying them some sort of musical instrument , wondering what music their echoes might make — what tales of what ages , how many stories etched into the cracks between each rounded corner . she wonders about her own instruments , left in the carriage to be delivered to her room , she’d suppose : but she hasn’t touched a guitar’s string in months , and she can hardly bring herself to utter a note these days . she has thrown away the luxury of her breath , and far too weak to earn it back , she seems content with breathing out just enough to sigh , or moan , or inquire about anyone but herself . but about her host , surely : so many questions lying in the muddy waters of her mind , fished out one by one with the effort of her fatigued brain .

     orlok . such a weird , creepy name — echoing in her brain in thunderous notes , like the furthest left key in a piano that’s been out of tune for ages . a sudden chill brings her arms around herself , but her steps don’t halt : she keeps following , gaze trailing his movements and wondering how can a human being avoid contact with all forms of civilizations so egregiously that he looks as though he’s been carved out of a different century . “ you never leave ? ” an eyebrow perched , not quite disbelief but a reluctance to believe it — being content with one place , to not ache for something far beyond the horizon , restlessly looking for a way out of any place and any time . morgan couldn’t even tolerate being stuck somewhere as harmless as the coast of maine : let alone a land as bleak and unsettling as this .

     yet the darkness of it , the overwhelming quiet , is strangely welcome — there can be no place furthest from the blinding glares of new york , from the stench of broken bottles and unwashed clothes . in time , surely , she will find herself longing for a drink , or scratching her arms where a needle was supposed to be . but right now , drifting across the floors as perhaps ghosts would , all she longs for is a bath , and more silence , and perhaps some moonlight sliced by the lattice at the window . 

       then a strange sadness grips her , a sudden feeling that urges her to take her next step just quick enough to bring herself closer to the count , like she’s suddenly understood a key piece of the enigma — “ it must get lonely , in here ” , uttered in a tone softer than her previous question , afraid of assuming anything he might take offense in . she’s longing for peace now , but just days before she wouldn’t have been able to be alone with her own thoughts : and to spend a lifetime in such a makeshift cemetery , surely would drive her insane .

It is one of two ways, that Castle Dracul is an extension of Orlok himself - or the other way around - his wan limbs, studded with sharp corners on every bone, all another stone upon this mountain-side fixture, all additions to the most haunted castle in Romania.   To leave?   What temptations there must be for him to leave.

A world on fire, marred in the ash of its greed, polluted by ego-maniacal carelessness. What in the ruins of human civilization was there to seduce one of Orlok’s experience and taste from these loyal walls he has for so long called home?

Nought but the blood that flows always inland, to the gates beyond, at his beckoning.

“Traveling is a tiring business, as you know well.”   He bows his head in her direction, a graceful decline of the neck swathed in black folds;   the top of his head just like the pristine white bone of the skull that must be beneath his unnaturally blanched skin.   “The Earth is but one rock, the people in their cities only as unique as the distance between the one and the next   ---   what shall I search for elsewhere that is not mine already, or mine to bring to me if it be far away?”   These words produced in meticulous fashion, a precision that of an operating room nurse awaiting a surgeon, tasked with laying out tools of life and death.

And these moments between them are just as seriously interlaced with the nuances - within that infinitesimal divorce of life and death - as inside the operating room.

“Lonely... You can not fathom my loneliness, Ms Christensen.”   The curse is spoken of here somewhat vaguely, but the rancor of Orlok’s emotion curls upper lip into something of a snarl;   the emptiness of this life is as severe in nature to muscle without skin,   the agony of time’s passing in relation to the wound much the same.

“I, the sole surviving member of my lineage...”   Glassy eyes fall upon Morgan from a sidelong perspective, two great dark fissures set unnervingly hard into his face, harboring there the unspoken devastation of centuries.   Intense silence gives to abrupt change.   “Let us not speak of gloom.   You are my guest, I your host --- what was once solitary is no longer so.”   Despairing aspect is to be traded with no other,   but his words here are as warm in geniality as he is consistently cold in demeanor.

     the trip has been long , tiring — a handful of hours stretching out into eternity , as if every single stumble and sway of the carriage might signal another year lost to her , another fragment of youth forgotten . truth be told , she has long ago stopped feeling young , or alive by any means — perhaps just a corpse too stubborn to wither , too lazy to make way for maggots and worms . still her stomach feels very much alive , upon arriving to the dreary sight of her new shelter : her anachronistic ride making her queasy and faint , and the heavy shade of pearl-grey in the sky not easing the sense of claustrophobia now gripping her by the fragile skin of her neck . were she any less numb to her surroundings , she’d be startled perhaps — every element of this scenario now clashing against every notion of what the twenty-first century should look like . and there stands her host : a ghastly silhouette right out of one of her nightmares , and yet retaining a perverse , enigmatic pull on her — like the dark below , like the abyss , like the depths . 

     the hand that’s offered to her could hardly pass as a lifeline , and yet she holds no delusion that this might be a promised land for her weathered , frayed nerves . she has only entertained the trip to humor sebastian’s notion that this might do her good — some time away , cut out of a life that was wearing her out to the bone . she could not spare the time to explain to him the reasons that had driven her to the terrible , despicable act of jumping in the water : it had not been new york’s fault , nor his , nor anyone’s but her own . yet her shame was heavy enough to prompt her to follow any advice , however silently and apathetically . the turn of the month now found her here , cast on the other side of the planet , pale as the ghost of herself , detached from reality just enough to not fear , or care , whatever was next in store for her .

     still her gaze is captivated by the oddity of the man ( is he , really , or has she been hallucinating the whole trip ? ) before her — her head tilts slightly , eyebrows furrowed as she tries to grasp the story behind his appearance . huge fan of robert smith’s cure , perhaps ? 

     but the hand is taken , however faintly , as if she might withdraw any second now — no smile attempted ( far too big an effort , and her muscles and bones are still re-adjusting to the concept of living / trying / surviving ) .“anticipated ? ” an odd choice of words , or one that simply doesn’t registered as making any sort of sense . it’s quickly dismissed , however , in favor of looking around herself with a quiet sense of distant curiosity , as if gazing on a scene that did not directly concern her . “ don’t think i caught your name , sir ” , she asks casually , turning to admire a particularly pleasing array of dead leaves sweeping along her steps , carried by the wind . “ i don’t think i was mentioned in the material i was shown —— ”

She,   the face of the moon turned from the Earth,   wrought by the passing of the days,   features drawn in morbid unconcern for the lives far beneath her reflection.   Sharp eyes burdened darkly by the sorrow of worlds within,   that which follows her thoughts most closely and painfully,   that which no one must ever share the strain of  ---   could never know as she knows.   A private agony like a companion ascending the seat beside her.   

She has not journeyed alone.

Dracul is surprised to hear his guest has not arrived with a more complete idea of what is to be her home for the indeterminate future - who will be her sole confidante in weeks to come, though she could not comprehend that danger so soon.   In examining her beautiful countenance as they stand briefly in one place, caressed by the night’s subduing arms, Dracul comes to wonder of Morgan’s state of mind - how unclear her own movements may be to her now. How delightfully like a dream this might all seem!

“I am Count Orlok,   and it is my great benefit to welcome you to my home.”   She is lead onwards from the carriage, through multiple dark arches of stone.   The pace set by the Count similar to that of pallbearers;   slow, almost theatrically so.

Torches bearing the blazing dance of medieval light indicate the way towards the castle entryway, casting orange glow about them as they two pass through the deserted courtyard.

“You may find my manner peculiar and old-fashioned, as I am of the country’s oldest family, and have little knowledge of the ways those beyond the boundaries of my ancestors’ land we tread here, are wont to behave, as I have not ventured outside of these walls since many a year ago.”   Heavy iron enforced doors swing - untouched - to allow Morgan and her host entrance with deep groans that echo upwards until the sky claims them with silence.

A sentinel of shadow,   figure of stone carved to the likeness of a gargoyle   ----   or could it be a grotesquely large bat?   Much less likely:   could it be a man?

That was the first sighting she was afforded of her host,   granted the identity of the silhouette was unknown to her at the time of her seeing it.   The eyeless black mass of stoic energy without movement of life    watching over the uneven road that wound up and through the readily agape gates of the castle, from its post above the arc of first entry to the courtyard;   an unreal vision further mystified by its disappearance from sight upon her carriage having swept violently through the entryway;   gone in seconds.

Without a moment for the Transylvania newcomer to adjust to fresh surroundings the caleche abruptly lurched to a stop.   Reticent driver alighted from the elevated front seat and was at once preoccupied with Morgan’s luggage.   Herself left in neglectful silence,   perhaps naught but another article of delivered packages in the mind of this unforthcoming servant   who sacrificed no time of his own to guide the Count’s guest from the confinement of the carriage, endured now for some hours   in the eerie gloam of the mountains traveled.

                          Nor did he provide any acknowledgement of their arrival.

“Miss Christensen,”   mournful voice assaults the natural sounds of the advancing nighttime;   the presence of a ghostly pale man flanking the carriage   without noise of approach   so sudden as to cause a shock in any unsuspecting witness.   

“Your journey to my castle has been one of great length and labor.”   Dracul, as he has now indicated himself to be, holds one pallid hand out to her, urging her from her seat.   The tips of his fingers, closest to herself, eccentrically claw-like.

Don’t:  Be pushy or impatient.   Make assumptions about me or the Count.   Be a dick to anyone.   Steal.   Be afraid to reach out to me.

Do:   Message me if you want to interact, plot, or just shoot the shit.   Continue memes as threads in a new post if you feel like it.   Tag me in things.

Fast Facts

Author is 23.

This is a low activity    ⅋   18+ blog.

I’m writing a blood drinking undead creature, so there will be all kinds of dark themes/violence/etc. on this blog. You’ve been warned.

I will tag visual triggers if you ask me to.

I am not always online, I don’t always feel like writing. I RP as a hobby, I won’t treat it like my job unless you wanna pa.ypa.l me some wages.

I am not mutual exclusive/private, though I am selective and will prioritize my mutuals, and whatever threads I’m feeling the most.  

I’ll probably unfollow if you post a lot of negative ooc stuff and I can’t blacklist it all, no hard feelings, it just stresses me tf out.

If you wanna write privately on discord just let me know.

The Count

Canon divergent    ⅋   headcanon based   Count Orlok.  

source material:   Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922),   Bram Stoker’s Dracula,   ⅋   Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979).

❝         Count   Dracul Orlok,   of Castle Dracul situated in the dusk of Transylvania along the Carpathian Mountains.   Creature without age, beast of bloode and sacrifice;   that which is not of nature,   abandoned by Him and his light.   Cold flesh feedeth of humanity in the dark of the Devil’s design,   naught but a soulless animal confined to eternal thirst.