Carpathian Fangs
Repentence Cavern (910,420)
Vampire
Alive
Humans
Exiled
Mara, Vlad Dracula
Callisto is a vampire who currently resides in the Repentance Cavern in the Carpathian Fangs in Transylvania.
Prior to his transformation from a human to a vampire, Callisto went under the name Alessandro Farussi. As Alessandro, he was a Venetian poet who enjoyed life and lived to entertain himself first. Venice was, however, not enough for the poet, and he decided to go out into the world to satisfy his appetite for life's delicacies. At some point, his travels took him to Transylvania where he befriended Vlad Dracula and Mara.
Alessandro fell in love with Mara, which she exploited after her transformation in order to betray Dracula. Her plan worked, and eventually lead to Dracula's demise. During this plot, Mara managed to turn Alessandro into a vampire sometime during the summer of 1462, and renamed him Callisto from her Greek studies. Alessandro, now Callisto, would go on to feast on the pain and suffering of mortals for years to come before he would come to realise what he had become. Around the time of Mara's first defeat, Callisto was approached by Dracula who charged him with a key role which Callisto would play in Dracula's return, thus also offering him a chance for redemption. Callisto accepted and went on to live a life of complete solitude while awaiting Mara's return as predicted by Dracula.
Following Mara's return, a secretworlder's investigation into Dracula's plan to stop Mara lead them to Callisto, who was still located in the Repentance Cavern. Callisto went on to assist the secretworlder in defeating Mara by summoning the soul of Vlad Dracula. After having fulfilled his promise to Dracula, he returned to the Repentance Cavern where he continues his life of solitude.
I did not expect an audience, else I would have dressed for the occasion. I presume from your...eye-catching fashions that there is an occasion, hmm? Incantato. I am the shadow of Alessandro Farussi. A poet, he lived to entertain - himself first, and then his audience. His appetite for life's delicacies could not be contained by the Venice of his birth. All the world was a feast, inviting. Knowing this I understand what my killer saw in me- And I forgive her. To go beyond death, to find the most fabulous excesses, it was wonderful. Dizzying. Years passed as a carousel of delights. Delights to us, horrors to mortals. I saw what I had become. Alesandro Farussi consumed life to celebrate it. I merely preyed upon it. That is why I sealed myself away from the world. I could not face my shame. Nor could I bare myself to the sun any more than you would willingly step into a furnace.
This crack in the earth has been my atelier for ten thousand nights. I chose my own exile and burial. A melodramatic gesture, true - but melodrama was my trade. No, occupying a grand castle or opulent manor is a show of entitlement. For my sanguine curse, these are the luxuries I deserve: Solitude. Darkness. The drip-drip of water to count off lifetimes. Candle wax and guano. I convinced myself the valley outside had remained frozen. Not just in snow, in time itself. That there were no world beyond such wonders, muses and inspiration. Alessandro Farussi never lived to see that world. You know better than I what unknown journeys brought men and monsters here. Yes, I have heard the thunder of their new machines. And in reply, the rocks seem to echo and quake. As if they hold a less willing prisoner than I.
If an artist's spirit is a tendency to embellish, then I still possess a fraction of spirit. But believe me: When Vlad Dracula lifted a blade, no man could be his match. I say "man," none could match him. With iron, fire and faith he purged Wallachia of monster, demon and spirit. He ended the corruption of the boyars. He pushed back the musselman and traitors alike. Nothing that hated him could wound him...still he was undone all the same. Love. It was love that caused it all to end. The rosebushes that marked their arbor were uprooted, bare beds suggesting fresh graves. Ask me to speak of his kindness, speak of his charity, speak of his love...and I can only tell you of his defeat. Despair. Betrayal. Betrayed by each other. And betrayed by me, stood by, paralysed with vampiric desire. And all too mortal fear.
The centuries are too long and too cold for vendetta.
Do you make it a habit to barge into people's homes and rifle through their most private belongings?