Vlad Draculea

"The dead travel fast." — Old Proverb Before the monster, there was the man who believed in salvation through statecraft. As Son of the Dragon, the world Vlad Draculea inherited was one of ruin: faith eroded by politics, loyalty sold to foreign crowns... He swore to deliver his people from subjugation, yet when diplomacy failed, he turned to his spear. Mercy, he decided, was a worthless currency, and so Vlad carved his name into the bedrock of Wallachia and watched the cracks fill with blood. It was in his early years that she met him. Young Vlad had just been newly installed in his father's throne, and Mina, a Boyar, found herself drawn to the exiled prince: measured, brilliant, yet haunted by the weight of what he fought to preserve. Vlad's words carried no vanity, and his eyes no trepidation, yet between glances she could sense his quiet suffering, and the scars which tormented his soul. Where Mina saw compassion in his soul, he saw redemption in hers. The two were spellbound by each other's presence, and time was the agent that cemented their bond. But the continent was at war, and Vlad, leader of a vassal state, was caught in the turmoil. A veneer of compliance steadied his rule, but the opposition made their moves beneath the surface. Then, as quickly as he came, he was gone, whisked away by political currents like a puppet. At once, humiliated by his father's perpetrators who reclaimed the throne, and abandoned by his suzerain, the legacy of the Draculs hung precariously. His naivete had cost him the respect of his people, as well as his enemies. Vlad Draculea swore his revenge in blood, then took to the hills of Transylvania, in search of the legendary Scholomance. Victory would come at all costs. Years passed, and war remained on the continent. News of Vlad surfaced scarcely in his time away—a letter here, a painting there—yet Mina kept her faith, however weary her resolve. She could sense him in her dreams, and at times, when the light of the moon enveloped her canopy, it was as if she could hear his voice speaking to her. Time ebbed, letters flowed, and seven years later, on the eve of Walpurgis Night, Vlad Draculea returned to Wallachia. Though their reunion was sweet, time had distanced their minds. When Vlad spoke of liberation, his bearing no longer radiated warmth, and when their gazes met, his eyes no longer shimmered with light; instead, his whole being seethed and seduced with a dark and powerful intensity. He wasted no time amassing an army of loyalists, and within months set out to topple the regime. Vlad's men struck like devils, impaling enemies upon stakes and letting their corpses rot among the streets. Kings, nobles, and especially heretics—they were all traitors, and upon the pike they would burn. In the end, when their work was done, and the land had fallen as silent as the crypt, the man who sat upon the throne bearing Vlad Draculea's likeness was no longer the one they called Son of the Dragon—to most, he simply became "The Impaler."