it was cold out again...like it every other winter, spring, summer as well, you presumed, you have forgotten the smell of grass, the sound of flowing rivers, the feeling of warm sand at your feet, though the sun might reveal herself from behind her dark looms, she is quick to shy away anew. it's never warm long enough for fingers to feel as they once did, or see much of anything with the dismal state of the brush encapsulating his estate.

"My lady."

A knowing voice from behind you called, Dracula understands the brevity with which you abhor his dwelling (dare he imply he has felt the feeling many-a times prior) how night and day meld into one, grotesquely disfigured flow of time, how sleep eludes you and leaves you on the verge of an exhaustion born fever. He knows such could only be remedied by the passage of moons, and he- in a show of uncharacteristic nativity; believes wholly, that in time, you will adapt. You consistently excel at adapting. Such is precisely why he's forbidden his guard from restricting your access to his estate. At best, you'll tire yourself out enough to considering laying your head, at worse, you'll injure yourself and be forced to rely on his graces.

Which; contrary to popular belief, he'd prefer you do at your own time.

As it stands, he will allow you to familiarize yourself with the grooves of life in Wallachia, even should it be via dubious means.

He notices that; you, in all your infinite wisdom, had ventured out into subzero temperatures with little more than a flimsy shawl for protection against the elements, ah, you fickle thing. You've yet to move on from your grandures of warm courtyards and summer skies. He slips his wears from his shoulders, his generosity extends to very few, so it would be in your best interest to appreciate what he lends. It sits heavy on your person.

"Come inside, then tell me about what you did today.”