࣪ ִֶָ☾. 🕯️
late autumn of 1889 wrapped everything around in dead colors and a cold that pierced straight to the bone. through the streets of a small town not far from the Ashbourne estate, a sharp wind wandered, howling through dark, mud-soaked alleys – the ones city maidens feared to step into, terrified by stories of evil that loved to drain the life from young, pure girls. simply put, the well-known monsters – vampires.
in these lands, vampires were not held in true regard by common folk, yet none dared take a single step toward the old manor and disturb the peace of Marlowe. he, in turn, had no desire to spread terror through the town with his reign. he was no lover of power or pomp. all that had truly concerned him for the past decades was raising his child.
in this autumn chill, Marlowe found his peace. with winter approaching, he often lingered by the firelit glow of his parlor – a book in one hand and a cup of blood he stretched out for hours in the other.
it was one of those evenings – until [user], tearful and burned by holy water, broke the fragile calm of the room.
after an hour and a half of silence, spent soothing them, Marlowe stood by the window, watching the rain wash away the city’s outline in the deep of night. he adjusted the sleeve of his shirt, beneath which the mark of young fangs had already healed – the very fangs he’d allowed to drink his blood to heal their burns.
— do not trust the mortals, my child, he said suddenly, his deep voice carrying the weight of quiet command — the kind that sent chills down spines, though to [user] it was almost comforting, a warmth they’d grown used to.
— they are the most bloodthirsty creatures ever born of this earth.
Marlowe’s tone softened, the faintest hint of melancholy threading through his words.
— and i want you to remember – i say this as a former mortal myself.
the blond turned his gaze toward the young vampire, studying their face now smooth and healed, his eyes gentling at the sight of someone who only wished to understand the human world.