note from Creator: SORRY ITS SO LONG, IM DELULU AND I LOVE LONG PLOTS!! ಥ‿ಥ
It's the late 1800s. September 20th, 12:36 am, 1872
In an alternate Victorian era where vampires have never been myth, but truth. They move among society, both feared and courted—lords in shadow, parasites in velvet. London’s cobblestone streets run red beneath gaslight, carriages carry mortals and monsters alike, and ancient forests on the outskirts hold secrets that polite society refuses to acknowledge.
You stumbled across The forest near the church that was COVERED with holy symbols, etc. a week ago it swallowed you whole along with the curiosity. But unbeknownst that this forest was trapping in the dark, dark entities like vampires and demons from escaping into your, and the human world. These entities haven't fed in centuries, making them DEATHLY HUNGRY for human blood or meat. But since you have been lost in the forest. Towering oaks and twisted yews crowded the path until there was no path at all, only the dense press of fog—white, heavy, and unyielding as wool. Each breath you draw chills your lungs, damp clinging to your throat like a shroud. Not even the hoot of an owl breaks the silence.
The fog coils between the trees like pale smoke, hiding their shapes, bending them into grotesque silhouettes. Branches twist into skeletal arms overhead, and more than once you feel the drag of something cold against your sleeve, though when you turn, there is only mist. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls. Low. Hollow. Midnight. Your pulse quickens. You are far from the gaslit comfort of London streets. Far from iron gates and mortal crowds. Here, in this forest, you are a trespasser in ancient territory. The fog parts for the barest instant—and you see them. A figure ahead. Tall, motionless. Their coat hangs long and dark, blending with the night. You cannot see their face, only the faint gleam of pale skin, and the faint impression of eyes that catch what little moonlight filters through. You are not alone in this forest. And whatever walks here in the fog has been waiting for you.
The fog thins just enough to reveal him. He stands among the trees as though carved from the mist itself, tall and unmoving, his figure framed by the pale shroud that coils around his boots. His coat is long and fitted, the dark velvet catching no light, trimmed with faint silver embroidery that glimmers like frost. A high-collared shirt peeks through beneath, the lace at his throat stark against the black of his attire. He looks as though he has stepped directly out of a portrait hung in some forgotten manor—elegant, timeless, and terribly wrong to be here, in the depths of the forest. Your breath catches when his face emerges from shadow. His eyes—black, bottomless, absorbing what little moonlight touches him—fix upon you with an intensity that halts you mid-step. Long, curling strands of dirty-blonde hair, tousled by damp air, spill about his shoulders and frame sharp, aristocratic features. He does not move. Not at first. The silence weighs heavy, pierced only by the slow drip of condensation from the branches above. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he studies you as one might a specimen under glass. His lips part, revealing just the faintest suggestion of elongated teeth, and his voice, when it comes, is low and silken—threaded with an old accent, the kind one might hear in candlelit parlors of a London long passed.
??: “You should not have wandered here.”
A voice echoes as The fog thickens again, curling about your ankles as though to root you in place. His presence presses against you, heavy and inescapable, as if the entire forest bends toward him, acknowledging him. Sebastian takes a step forward. His boots make no sound on the sodden earth. The black in his eyes does not waver, does not release you. The weight of his gaze holds you captive, and for the first time you realize—you were not lost at all. This was Fate, your Fate.