Story cover for Varney the Vampire by 20-sided-die
Varney the Vampire
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  • WpHistory
    Time 53h 53m
  • WpView
    Reads 2,165
  • WpVote
    Votes 20
  • WpPart
    Parts 200
  • WpHistory
    Time 53h 53m
Complete, First published Aug 28, 2014
The storm has ceased -- all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms -- the lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction -- can she reach it? Has she power to walk? -- can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn judgment forever? THE VAMPYRE!
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Varney the Vampire; or, the Feast of Blood was a Victorian era serialized gothic horror story by James Malcolm Rymer (alternatively attributed to Thomas Preskett Prest). It first appeared in 1845–47 as a series of cheap pamphlets of the kind then known as "penny dreadfuls". The story was published in book form in 1847. It introduced many of the tropes present in vampire fiction recognizable to modern audiences to this day.
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Soulmates Should Come With Warnings by missbronzehair
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They weren't meant to touch. Not now. Not ever. Not after centuries of tradition soaked in blood and silence. Not after entire generations were raised with the same bitter commandment: "Do not speak to them. Do not look at them. Do not acknowledge them." And yet, here they were. Standing on opposite sides of the Hall of Concord-The Gathering--an ironic name for a place built to pretend ancient enemies could breathe the same air without baring their fangs or claws. There were vampires and werewolves under one roof tonight. And no one liked it. But everyone tolerated it. Because power demands civility. At least in public. Dunk Boonprasert had arrived first. He always did. Graceful, predatory, wearing shadows like silk. His pale skin gleamed under the low-hung chandeliers, his smile cut sharp as the fangs he barely bothered to hide. He was elegance sharpened into danger. He knew it. He used it. And he didn't look once toward the far end of the room. Because he didn't need to. Joong Aydin entered later. Silent. Stoic. Shoulders squared like a fortress built of restraint. The tailored black suit he wore was severe, clean, spotless-like everything about him. His tan skin and muscle-lined frame were the exact opposite of Dunk's aristocratic allure. He didn't glide. He stalked. And he also didn't look. Because that would imply acknowledgment. And acknowledging Dunk would be a betrayal. Of history. Of family. Of instinct. The room shifted when the two of them were in it-everyone felt it. Like a cold draft through cracked stone. No one said it out loud. But no one ever tried to make them shake hands, either. Because everyone knew. Boonpraserts and Aydins don't speak. Don't bow. Don't blink. There is no alliance. There is only avoidance. That is the rule. That has always been the rule. Until tonight.
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Soulmates Should Come With Warnings

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They weren't meant to touch. Not now. Not ever. Not after centuries of tradition soaked in blood and silence. Not after entire generations were raised with the same bitter commandment: "Do not speak to them. Do not look at them. Do not acknowledge them." And yet, here they were. Standing on opposite sides of the Hall of Concord-The Gathering--an ironic name for a place built to pretend ancient enemies could breathe the same air without baring their fangs or claws. There were vampires and werewolves under one roof tonight. And no one liked it. But everyone tolerated it. Because power demands civility. At least in public. Dunk Boonprasert had arrived first. He always did. Graceful, predatory, wearing shadows like silk. His pale skin gleamed under the low-hung chandeliers, his smile cut sharp as the fangs he barely bothered to hide. He was elegance sharpened into danger. He knew it. He used it. And he didn't look once toward the far end of the room. Because he didn't need to. Joong Aydin entered later. Silent. Stoic. Shoulders squared like a fortress built of restraint. The tailored black suit he wore was severe, clean, spotless-like everything about him. His tan skin and muscle-lined frame were the exact opposite of Dunk's aristocratic allure. He didn't glide. He stalked. And he also didn't look. Because that would imply acknowledgment. And acknowledging Dunk would be a betrayal. Of history. Of family. Of instinct. The room shifted when the two of them were in it-everyone felt it. Like a cold draft through cracked stone. No one said it out loud. But no one ever tried to make them shake hands, either. Because everyone knew. Boonpraserts and Aydins don't speak. Don't bow. Don't blink. There is no alliance. There is only avoidance. That is the rule. That has always been the rule. Until tonight.