From my mountaintop aerie, the view of the valley is breathtaking. Stretching before me for miles, the glacier, which cuts it's swatch out of these mountains, leads up to the rocky outcropping that hides the opening in the rock from prying eyes. All these long centuries, the cavernous prison within this mountain has served as haven for my kind. Driven by the Roman advance many centuries ago, fore-bearers of the ancient blood sheltered themselves here. Awaiting the Roman Legions' departure. Picking out a few unfortunate souls along the way. Roman soldiers were more than happy to leave this place. Away along the Brenner Pass in Austria.
West of Grossglockner, the second highest peak in the eastern Alps, a mountain prison was created for his eminence the Cardinal_de_Richelieu of Paris in late 1624. A place for Richelieu, a man of great lust for power, to send his political enemies. Arrested on charges, some true, some a convenient creation of Richelieu himself. A long journey across the French, then Italian Alps ended here. Unwittingly providing my kind with a sanctuary from which to plague the lowlands in eastern Austria, and Tirol. As far east as Graz. As far West as Innsbruck itself. It was in this time, that I came to be reborn an immortal. Vampyre, the villagers would call us. For almost 400 years, I have surveyed this terrain. I've watched from this place as armies advancing in the name of madmen created more destruction in a few years than all of my kind did in a century. Watching as civilization marched forward. The invention of the rail system. Electricity. Villages grown to modern, if still gothic cities. And all the while I watch from Schloss Richelieu, cleverly and artistically hidden in the eastern face of Grossvenediger.
Every night, the moon rises beyond the pyramidal apex of Grossglockner. An artist's painting to behold. Cities and villages dot the landscape below, their lights flickering. Souls waiting to be taken. It was here, in one of these, Lienz, to the south, where I found you. My night mistress. Beautiful, alluring, deadly. Preternatural angel. You stir beneath the mountaintop. I can sense you from here. What have you been up to? These early evening feedings are as dangerous as they are exhilarating. Nearly 400 years have made me cautious. Mingling with mortals is a delicate business. Merely fifty years since I found you, and you are more beautiful than ever with your gothic appearance. Yes, undead suits you. The dark suits you. But you must take care. You are reckless in your beauty.
The mist dissipates as I emerge at the entrance to the cavernous great hall within the mountain. Once the last view that dozens of Frenchmen ever saw of the outdoors. Cauldrons, four feet across are ablaze from all corners of this great place. Fed by a natural fuel from deep within the mountain, these blazes are never squelched. Warming the hall, but not much else. Great winds blast the mountains with snow and icy cold just beyond the hewn gothic stone entranceway, typical of architecture that makes up this place. Notre Dame for the damned. Winters here are ferocious. But in this place, in this time, my attention is drawn to you. And not even the icy winter without can distract me from the sight of you, bent over a mortal. Seated in a great stone chair, his trousers around his ankles. At first you appear to be entertaining him with your mouth wrapped around his ample manhood. But upon my approach, I realize that while that may indeed been how this encounter started, there is sufficient blood mixed with his semen to have been his demise. What a tease you are. At the moment of his great climax you amused yourself by piercing his great cock with your fangs. The better to feed. What better resource of man's blood than his engorged penis at the moment of orgasm? Clever little mistress.
