Vampires
A long history of the undead
The setting sun casts its last dying shadows over the land, leaving twilite to its own sweet embrace.
It rises.
At first if feels the weight of centuries hanging upon its flesh, grey and twisted as some withered ancient tree in Wintertime. Long, yellow fingernails reach for the coffinlid as it takes its first breath of fetid air. With monsterous strengh it shoves the heavy lid aside and, bones creaking, sits upright. The light stings its red eyes. Even the last few waning beams of blue are like staring into the sun. It bares its fangs instinctively, hissing. Another night has come; one of how many? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? It matters little. It knows it will live for live it must. For the unholy there is no rest. There is no sanctuary but this black box. In a few hours it will sing, it will dance. It will tell tales of centuries long forgotten to doomed men that it will surely kill. Now it knows not of good or evil. It remembers no Kings and Knights, now dust. For now it must feed...and feed...for feeding and the night are all that it has; that and eternity. It is a Vampire.
Vampires Thru The Ages
Elizabeth Bathory, the blood countess
