Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from, but enjoy.
He moves through the night without a sound, completely at home in the darkness of the new moon, the stars casting little light through the trees. Swiftly he travels, unhindered by the roots and rocks, as if they weren't even there. The mountains are his domain, the night his element, the dark his very being. Here in this pocket of untouched wonder and horror he is king.
The world knows him as a story, as myth, something to frighten people with. Here people are very aware that he is real. Here they live under his threat, sometimes even, out of desperation, send him a victim in hopes of appeasing him and keeping him at bay, at least for a short time. It amuses him at how cowardly and stupid they really are. Some have moved away, those who have moved here, most move back to where they came from. Some, however, stay, for reason he did not know nor care about. Humans were such fools.
He smiled, a terrible, twisted, sick parody of one rather. A mouth full of nightmarish fangs. His expression matching the 'smile', predatory, bloodthirsty, cruel, pitiless, merciless. He is all of these, and he revels in it. He revels in the fear.
He is death. He is rage. He is agony. He is cruelty. He is unfeeling. He is loss. He is anguish. He is Dracula.
End Note: Short little oneshot. Please review.
