He cannot say that he has had blueberries -- any berries -- in a very, very long time. But he also has not befriended any witches. Assuming the mouse's mother possesses magic.

~ towards them. "What brings you here?" He gives the pair a pointed look. "It is rather rude simply to barge into someone's home /uninvited/."

~battles for an immortal lifetime. Not that he would not fight if provoked. These two, however, do not seem to be looking for a fight. Rather . . . they seek. The girl even looks hopeful. "Looking for me . . . friends?" he bellows out, appearing at the top of the staircase and descending slowly ~

Surely. For a time, he watches, knowing they sense him. They must, for they are /like/ him. Other than those he has made himself, such visitors are few and far between. They are . . . nonexistent really, but he likes it that way. No divided loyalties. No needless battles. He has had enough ~

// 😘 glad you liked it

// Same. Good for my mental health.

~ brings a wicked little smile to his lips. He takes his own seat -- a box across the theater from hers. But he could watch. And soon, he would speak. /Mina./

~ to see /her/. The one who pulled herself from his grasp. The one who is still part of him nonetheless. Blood of his blood. . . . . . . The theater is crowded, and she seems uncomfortable amongst the throngs. Enjoying the show would be next to impossible. She feels him, too. The realization ~

~ taken him to return? Jonathan was gone. She mourns. It is a . . . .polite thing. Expected. But . . . Well. It is interesting. London now. It is as familiar a haunt to him as any, and it felt natural to seek her first. Not Professor Van Helsing, which would be the expected choice. No. He had ~

~ is not far. There he could sleep. And then, he could plan his revenge. . . . . . . That he still feels her is not a surprise to him. She is not like him -- not quite -- but his blood is still in her. It /always/ would be in her. She had gone home, of course, and . . . how many years had it ~

~But breathe he does. Scattered once, now whole. As he collapses onto the ground beside the hole he had burrowed through, he laughs, a dark, wicked sound. It seems he is quite hard to kill indeed. The earth had rejuvenated him, but he is still exhausted. These woods, he knows, though. His castle~

~

~ rises within Dragoș. Dracula claws his way out. The first intake of breath on the surface stings his lungs. Why, after all these centuries, is it still instinct to /breathe/?

~ not before he had the time to wonder "Is this hell? Nothing?" And that is how it was -- nothing. Until there was something. He gasps but cannot sit up. Cannot move. Dirt is in his mouth . . . all around him. Is him. "You are dust, and to dust. . . " Sensation and sense both return. Panic ~

~ that blade at his throat. All but. He felt his body give way -- though not the same sensation he feels when he changes form. No, this was a dissolving into nothingness. He was accustomed to thriving in the darkness, but he /became/ darkness itself. Even his thoughts dissolved away but ~

~ misfits thought themselves so very brave. And of course, being the "heroes," they felt righteous in their quest and quite destined to triumph in the end. Let those who remain bask in their perceived triumph . . . for now. He /was/ all but destined for hell with that stake driven into his heart,~