The story of Lord Drake of The Southlands is an interesting one. There are stories that are quite obviously better, as there always are in these instances, but there are none quite as...individual. Not that I'm going to tell you it. Oh, no. You do that yourself. You tell the story of Lord Drake of The Southlands, of his pale, porcelain skin that claims no emotion far enough out of his usual expression to be considered "feeling". I implore you to tell the tale of the man stepping down with unnerving rhythm an empty, lavish yet deliciously macabre hallway filled with remnants of things which he could never be, his blackened wavy hair flowing only in the way that a waterfall of blood after a war can flow. His white hands clasped seemingly mindlessly behind his perfectly straight back. His dark eyes with the shadow of a half-moon, trained on things far, far ahead of him. Please, I insist.

Start the story.