Apr 26
băiatu' care a fost vlad țepeș frumos foc la comic con, dacă vezi asta să știi că ești motivul pentru care acum sunt beautiful vlad truther & believer
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băiatu' care a fost vlad țepeș frumos foc la comic con, dacă vezi asta să știi că ești motivul pentru care acum sunt beautiful vlad truther & believer
I am sad that there's no good contemporary depiction of Vlad III. Draculea with a beard, since he wore one, at least according to his own personal seal (surprising, right?!). But we only have images of him with the iconic moustache.
So I decided to make one myself :D
I used the style of mediaeval icons, inspired by the ones painted in Snagov Monastery, which is connected to Vlad III. As I am no master of this type of art, I used as a base the icon of st. Alexander Nevskij, since he's holding a sword. I also wanted to draw him with a crown, sice that is also on Vlad's seal.
For his face, I used the contemporary description of Vlad from an eye-witness, Niccolò Modrussa, who describes him with aquiline nose, green eyes, long, black curly hair and intimidating, bushy eyebrows. I also tried to imitate the shape of his face from the traditional depictions of Vlad, although these were probably made by people who might've never seen him (and they also depicted him as ugly as part of propaganda against him. It's funny how in the chronicles his enemies always describe him as ugly while his allies described him as beautiful :D).
I was surprised that none of these depictions paint the mentioned strong eyebrows, but then I found out that medieval paintings in general don't really focus on various shapes of eyebrows, they're always more or less the same, so my decision to paint them might be a little bit anachronistic :D
I hope no-one will be offended that I kept the hallo. It looks good aesthetically, and, to be honest, Vlad's cousin Stephen the Great was hallowed, and I feel that if Vlad's name hasn't been dragged through the mud by the horrible propaganda, he might've ended like that as well, as it seems he was quite loved by his people.
Enjoy!
And if you want to know more about the real Vlad III. Dracula, without the distortion of the sensational propaganda against him, I highly recommend the professional team Corpus Draculianum and their illustrious YouTube channel, where they talk about Vlad's fascinating life in engaging and enjoyable form:
The first complete collection of all documents from and about the historical Dracula. Educational videos about Dracula's times, Wallachia, a
The personal seal of Vlad III. Draculea depicting him with a beard and a crown, which I found thanks to Corpus Draculianum and which I used as a main inspiration:
I admit I changed the beard a bit to look more like the royal fashion, and, well, in a hardly preserved 500 year old wax seal there wasn't much room for details, so I took it with a grain of salt.
Hey! So, have this. I rewrote a bunch of it, but i'm still not entirely satisfied with it in some parts, but at this point i think i'm overanalysing and just exhausting myself, so I decided to leave it like it is. Anywho, Radu as a historical figure interests me quite a bit. Particularly, I wanted to explore the whole effect of having lived in the Ottoman empire for a large chunk of his life and how that would leave him feeling when he does finally return to Wallachia. I admit, I used my own feelings as an immigrant from Romania to lead this. Obviously, it's not entirely the same (I was 10, excited to go to England and I had my parents by my side. Also, less trauma) but you know. Also, Maria Voichița is here, because father daughter bonding time <3
Also, i tried to use some romanian words, but mixing romanian and english together is kind of awkward. I'll have translations at the end.
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
♡♡♡
♡♡♡
August 1462
Wallachia. Valahia. Eflak.
So many words for one place, yet they all lead the same way.
Home.
At least, this is suppose to be home. What a strange word that is; home. Home is where you're safe, comfortable, and able to feel the most primitive emotions.
Yet, as he stands in his darkening room, a singular candle illuminating his features in the mirror, his person stripped of his armour to reveal bare bones, he feels none of those things. He stares at his half alight face, the way the shadows hug every wrinkle, every scar, every hair, every miniscule indent upon his face, and he feels nothing. Everything appears foreign, from the pale eyes pushed within his skull, to the world beyond this pocket of space. The language, build up of all those words and sounds that once felt like an embrace, feel heavy upon his tongue, crumbled and faded like an abandoned toy he once loved well.
He is finally where he's meant to be, however a freezing chill has settled in his muscles, his skin stretching and pulling as if it no longer fit his bones. This burning land made of hills and rivers did not know him, and he knew it not. The sky doesn't recognise his presence, the dirt doesn't hold the carvings of his feet, his essence doesn't linger in the air, the rooms don't hold space for his body; he's grown a stranger to his own skin, flesh and blood. He studies himself in the mirror, looking at the way the soft glow besides him morphs his face, removing his long lived years, and instead presenting him with his younger self, fragile red and skinless, his flesh writhing in agony as his old skin lays thrown away like waste.
By God, how he aches to mould and squeeze himself into that old, dusty skin; to retrieve the bones of that child that once knew well. They've long laid those bones within the confines of the Ottoman empire, that golden cage that glittered like sunshine on a summer's day, bold and unapologetic, yet so enticing; a perfect tomb for a child.
His body is now strange, no matter where he leaves it. His mind ticks, and weaves, and twists like a Wallachian, yet this clay he calls skin has been shaped into a Turkish man, so clean and graceful. His mind and body are hardly ever in tandem, but it had never mattered before, not to Mehmed. You're so beautiful, Radu. Radu Bey. Radu cel Frumos. They dressed his tomb in flowers and fruits.
Wallachian or Turkish. He was somehow both and neither.
He tries to think back on this day which made him Voivode, yet it all comes in blurs of colours, sounds and smells. The Ceremony which crowned him had tickled his nose with the smell of incense, had filled his eyes with images of holy stories painted in blue, red and gold along the walls and the hard floor, which was icy and hard against his knees as he kneeled for his God given right to be laid upon his brow. Words were spoken to him in unfamiliar tongues, prayers he hasn't whispered in years for he could not bring himself to; they appeared stolen and wrapped in falsity when he spoke them alone. They were verses of a song that his family once sang, the ones he could conjure up in his mind. His mother and his brother, both long gone from his grasp, alive or not. His mother, he can only remember her in seconds, in the reflection of his blue eyes they once shared, and she had loved this song. She would sing it to him as he sat in her lap, tiny and half asleep. The rotten blur of memories made it appear rippled and distorted, off-key in some way he can't comprehend. In contrast, his brother, Vlad, is one he can remember very well. From the hard edges along his face, to his furrowed brows, to the pitch black hair that curled at the ends, to those calculating grey green eyes, the image was so clear it felt like Vlad would be standing right in front of him right now if he blinked. Except, he appeared wrong, still 17 years old and not the grown man he has become. Radu shakes his head, swallowing down to soothe his dry throat, and the image vanishes.
Vlad has always loved this song, its melody and beats, and repeated them in whispers and mumbles, as if they'd wilt away. Wallachia remembered his brother well, just as Vlad remembered it. He'd tried to teach him, to tell him about their land, their blood, to let him not forget who he had barley known - their strong willed father, their confident and hopeful brother, and their sweet and daring sister - Vlad Dracul, Mircea, and Alexandra. These names were dear to Vlad; to Radu, they were names without faces or memories, just ghosts of touches, of mere concepts. He hadn't intended it, but with this power Vlad held, he became one in the same with Wallachia in Radu's mind; he revered him, he hates him, yet a feeling like love still lingers like a bad smell. He was the sweet balm and the sharp sword, the warmth of the flames and the stinging burn. Vlad left him first, and now he's gone and Radu has taken his place, and it wasn't fair; it never was with them. No matter, he doesn't need him.
He doesn't need any of them anymore.
He doesn't remember what came after the Ceremony. It appeared to be a celebration of his ascendence as Voivode, with the smell of roasted meat and spices overwhelming his nose, people dancing and turning into blurs of colourful skirts and robes. The warmth of the room had been intoxicating, just as the wine had left him dizzy and desperate to evade it all as fast as possible. Eyes started boring into his very soul, turning the celebration into judgement, a scrutiny of his every move. Suddenly, he was not sat upon a stiff wooden throne, but in the airy chambers he used to inhabit once, with its smooth silk sheets and its glossamer curtains. He tasted the fruity perfume and the sweat along his skin as he turned pale and started trembling in his flesh. Hands touched his skin, so clean and soft, leaving splotches of red and purple, but that wasn't right. It was disturbed in some way. Was his mind so lost? He was not in that chamber or under Mehmed's touch anymore, and the hands moving down his spine and up his thigh were tricks of the mind. He was beyond that now, not so young anymore, not so foolish. It was all in the past, it would never happen again. His body didn't believe it, so he made the wise decision to leave early. Now, he was here, in his chambers, in Wallachia, dark and cool, and most importantly, alone.
Had he even eaten anything? He can't remember. He can hardly remember what was served. There must be something in there to explain the ache and twist in his stomach leaving him nauseous, but nothing came to mind. He looks at his reflection again, truly looks this time, no illusion. He had taken the time to strip himself of all his finery that made him Voivode, leaving him in a plain cotton shirt and shorts that made him a mere man. Small bits of hair stuck to his skin and there was a light gleam of sweat decorating him. His cheeks were rosier than they should be, and his eyes, wide and alert, twitched as if they were trying to crawl out of his skin. He blinked and felt something cool drip down his cheeks. Was he crying? He didn't feel any twinge in his body to suggest it but his eyes were too glossy in the candlelight, and the tears on his face glowed white. Why was he crying?
His heart started racing in his chest and he stood up so abruptly that the chair he was sat on nearly fell to the ground. By God, was he actually here, in Wallachia, or was he still there, in the Empire? Had his mind tricked him again? He frantically runs his gaze over the place, and the room doesn't shift or twist in tones. It remains stagnant, steady, real. Thank God.
Breathe. Just breathe. Stop thinking like that, you fool.
He looks through a window and notices stars starting to twinkle and shine in the dark sky. He ought to get some rest. Some proper rest will clear his mind and rid him of this youthful foolishness. He moves over to his bed and collapses into the sheets like a dead animal. His wife won't be joining him for a couple more hours, so his only companion is the candle which has now flickered out, leaving him in total darkness. He turns onto his side to snuggle further into the sheets. They are different to what he's used to; thicker, coarser, yet still so soft and kind on his skin. He thinks he could stay here forever, cocoon himself in this blanket and let the world pass him by, and no one would see him again. This room is his, untouched by filth and failure and tears and another's burning hands. It can stay this way forever, until he goes to his grave; until there's nothing left of him to see.
A few hours later, he's brought back to the waking world by the door creaking open and a flicker of light slithering into the room. He sat up, trying to adjust his eyes to the unyielding darkness. He swiftly makes out a small child in the doorway, barely peeking through, wearing a simple white shift and long hair in a loose braid, locks sticking out and frizzled up from moving around in sleep, as she should still be doing. His daughter, Maria, was at the door, with her lower lip wobbling and her eyes wide as they always were when she was about to cry.
"Oh, what happened, puiu meu?" he says, opening his arms so the little girl can run into them. In the blink of an eye, his daughter had flown into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He moved one hand up and down her back and the other hand on her head petting down wild locks, rocking lightly and shushing smoothly to soothe her tears. She says nothing, sobbing for a few minutes before she gathers her words, sniffing loudly before she speaks.
"I don't like this place, Tati. I want to go home. Can we go home please?" she whimpers, and Radu can feel his heart shatter at the wobble in her voice. He tightens his hold on her as he swallows down the growing bubble in his throat. The words ring so eerily familiar. He might as well have woken up twenty years in the past, a small boy saying the same words to his older brother, desperatly longing for his own bed in his own home. God, Maria is older than he was when he was taken as a hostage. She's so tiny at only five years old; had he been so small? He doesn't remember, but he must've been. Perhaps even tinier than her. Oh God.
"Nu Tati, we can't go home, because this is our home now. I'm sorry, Maria." he says gently, and she starts to whine louder, unsatisfied with his answer. She pushes away, lifting her head up to look at him. Her brows were furrowed and her lips were in a pout, her eyes red rimmed and her whole face blotchy and wet. With all the strength a little girl can have, she hits him in the chest.
"But I don't like it here! It's scary!"
"I know, draga mea, but you have to try to be brave. I promise you won't be scared forever." Maria pushes him away with an upset huff and turns her head away, her arms crossed together. He can't help but chuckle to himself at the seriousness Maria fails to exhibit, looking rather like a little puffed up bird rather than anything intimidating, before cupping her cheeks and turning her face over so their eyes meet. Her face is glistening with tears, and Radu can't help but wipe them away with his thumbs. He presses a kiss to her forehead before he whispers to her: "Do you think you can be brave? For Tati și Mami?" After a few moments of silence, she nods and lays her head on his shoulder as Radu murmers sweet little words under his breath for her, lightly rocking once more.
She starts to fidget with his hair, running her fingers through his short locks absentmindedly, a habit she has taken to whenever she sneaks into bed with her parents. She typically does it to her mother, who has much longer hair fit for a five-year-old to play with. She’ll run her fingers through it and attempt to braid it with untrained hands, which always creates knots that the older Maria will have a nightmare trying to rid herself of in the morning. Radu chuckles at the thought of the amount of swears he’s heard the woman mutter under her breath while brushing her hair after such nights, both familiar and foreign words, but he knew she wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither of them would. His heart softens feeling his little girl’s hands in his hair that he can’t help but indulge her.
"Would it help you be more brave if you slept here tonight?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Maria jumps up with an excited squeal, a wide smile on her face as she untangles herself from him and rolls over into the spot next to him, snuggling under the blanket between giggles of success. Radu can't help but giggle as well at his daughter's characteristic change in mood before laying down alongside her and placing an arm over her in a comforting embrace.
No sooner had she laid down, the small child was asleep, emitting small snores. He can't help but look upon her; her cheeks are still chubby with baby fat, as are her arms and legs, her tiny hands have hardly learned the art of holding the quill, her messy curls in disarray, which are typically placed in braids and decorated with ribbons that the little girl loves to show off. The warmth emitting from her body is like a soft caress upon his skin which he hasn't felt in years. He leans down to kiss her on the forehead once more, and her skin feels as fragile as glass. A precious jewel, a small being in need of his protection.
Home.
Mayhaps this place will never feel like home for him, but he can make this a home for his daughter. He can make this land, with its tall hills and cold rivers, a place where Maria feels safe, comfortable and free. She will never feel the unwanted desire to shed her skin, to become something she is not.
And maybe he'll find his own skin along the way.
♡♡♡
♡♡♡
Translations:
puiu meu - my baby chick
tati - daddy
draga mea - my dear
mami - mommy
If we are being realistic here, real vampire!Vlad would heavily change the history of Romania and Balkans in general. That part does not make any sense in the stories of fictional Dracula(s) - as soon as they turn into a vampire, they forget about their most bitter enemy (TURKS) and go live in their own private la la land for the next 500 years. Uhmm??? I can understand, to some degree, why Stoker's Dracula did that, since vampires are weak in the book and it's easy to kill them. But Hellsings Alucard? You really want to tell me this eldritch ball of fury and hatred did not kill every ottoman soldier with his bare hands and burn Constantinopole to the ground when he finally had power to do so??? Did he really just packed his bags and said "my work here is done. adios 🫡" I meaaaan-
Ah, this is an excellent question!!!
And yes, I did think of that.
(actually by a complete coincidence I was just brainstorming a scene where he nearly succumbs to doing exactly what you say 😄, and how that would go - although it happens in the 21st century. I mean I have the kinda same scene planned when he gets cursed in the 15th century, but I don't have it written down yet 😅)
And I plan to explain it in several psychoanalyses, namely in these posts I have planned for the future 😄:
But for now, I can either give you a complex answer or a more simplified answer 😄.
OR I can actually post the part of the story where he goes through that development! 😁 ...and attach to it notes explaining why he's acting the way he is.
Or I can do it the same way I did it with The Beheading (story + later detailed psychoanalysis of the scene)
Which one would you prefer?
A complex answer
A simple answer, for the details I'll wait for the analytical posts
The story + shorter explanations in the forenote
The story + later detailed psychoanalysis
Dearest moots, friendos, readers, and everyone from Romania who sees this post,
you might have noticed this little blog floating around in your orbit, together with my scribbles and creative shenanigans. In case you do not know me, allow me to introduce you to my little project I am currently working on that tackles the creative reimagination of Vlad Drăculea’s life. My story focuses on mapping his life in all its richness and pain and thoroughly digs into his life, exploring both the ruler and the man. Despite making sure to research every minuscule detail and map this part of Romanian history with all the diligence such a project requires, I am still a foreigner (from Slovakia) who may not be able to grasp the little nuances and meanings.
I am asking the Romanian Tumblr community for a little bit of help because, even though I am doing my best, Vlad is still your historical figure, and you know your history and culture better than the rest of us. Since Vlad holds such an important place in Romanian history and imagination, I would love to hear from you — Romanians who have grown up with stories about him, who know the history, the legends, and the way he is remembered. This post from @vladvodashitposts and this post from @skeysesil are essentially my Bible to which I stick while crafting Vlad’s story, but I would still greatly appreciate help in the form of a detailed explanation that would help me understand what exactly Vlad means to you as Romanians and what aspects you find important in fictional works about him. Vlad is your man — his story should reflect that thoroughly.
For that reason, I have put together questions that will help me craft his character as seen by his people. You can find the questionnaire on this Google Forms link — I apologise for the very lengthy and time-consuming questionnaire, but your help here would mean the world to me, so please, if you can spare some time and answer them, I would be most grateful to you. You do not have to be an expert on your national history nor a Vlad geek — any insight, observations, or musings would help me immensely! My research aims to help understand what his Romanianness (well, Wallachianness) means and how you perceive one of the most significant historical figures from your country, as well as know what you consider typical for your region that could be reflected in his character. All questions are open so you can easily skip questions you cannot give an answer to. In case you have anything else to add, do not hesitate to shoot a DM on my project blog!
At the same time, your answers from this questionnaire will also help @tutanchanup from the Czech Republic who is also working on a creative project about Vlad — @io-draculea. She focuses on the psychology of Vlad’s character and maps the possibilities of how his historical personality and mentality would contrast with that of a modern person. We have discussed the possibility of what this research could bring to our non-Romanian writers focusing on Vlad, and your help would also be beneficial to her creative undertakings.
Please, spare a moment of your time to help this cause and aid two souls to finally portray your voievod with all the respect, care, and complexity he deserves. Mulțumesc frumos! ❤️
Please, help a girl out by answering this Google Forms questionnaire that will help me understand how Romanians see the historical figure of Vlad Drăculea and how you imagine a good portrayal of him in popular media! This research will be immensely valuable to my historical fiction about him.
For more questions or comments, do not hesitate to shoot a DM to my project blog — @voievod. Thank you so much for your time and help! ❤️
As requested by the dear @tutanchanup, another crack fic story about Vlad because neither of us can resist a crackfic about this man.
This time, Miss Annabelle the haunted doll is involved because she’s supposedly missing right now and very trending. And might as well have medieval warlord turned immortal meet a supposed demon doll.
Plus we love an unbothered king <3
Now enough of this rambling, let’s move on to story-telling ramblings~~~
It had started out as a typical dreary day. Rain, mist, some fog, and a slight chill in the air from all the rain. It was still spring technically, though one could feel that the summer heat was setting in, and could certainly feel it the day before with the humidity. It was Louisiana after all.
Vlad had decided he wanted to cross the Americas off his travel list. After all, he had been to plenty of other places on the other side of the world. Not to mention, what else are you supposed to do with immortality? Sit around and do nothing? He’d done plenty of that already because he deserved some rest damnit. Now, he’s traveling once again. He’d heard of the stories about Mardi Gras, the architecture, southern hospitality, the parades, tourist attractions, just about everything under the sun. So far, his trip had been quite enjoyable. People were not kidding about southern hospitality, many people were quite friendly. They’d always ask what brought him to Louisiana of all places, and he’d simply tell him he’d been to so many other places, why not add it to the list? The people would laugh with him and agree that it was a decent idea, before bidding him safe travels.
Now, as said before, it was currently raining. But it was nice, peaceful even. He was casually walking down the streets of New Orleans, on his way to Bourbon Street, umbrella in hand to shield from the rain because he didn’t feel like getting soaked with rain to be honest. Whilst walking, he came across an antique shop. It stopped him in his tracks because he is an old soul, and they tend to be attracted to old things. He stood and admired the beautiful furniture sat in the display window. Which contained an old mahogany rocking chair with intricate woodwork, a marble and wood side table with a stained glass lamp sitting atop a green and white checkered placemat, and another much simpler white wooden rocking chair sitting on the other side of the table. Both rocking chairs had a throw pillow sitting on them, both hand embroidered with flowers. Vlad then turned his gaze to the hours sign posted at the door, hoping that this place would be open. Much to his luck, they were! Now he could get out of the rain and look and beautiful antebellum antiques while he was at it!
Vlad closed his umbrella, shook off the extra water, before opening the door and stepping inside. The door rang a small golden bell above him to let the employees know someone had entered. However it was more like employee, because Vlad was met with a small old woman sitting on a stool behind a counter reading the newspaper. She had mostly white hair arranged in a mildly slicked back poof, large thick glasses with gold rims with a beaded gold chain to keep them around her neck, a purple shirt paired with khaki slacks, brown loafers, and a dainty gold cross necklace. She had rosy cheeks and a look of what could be described as genuine happiness, like she was just happy to be there.
“Hello! Welcome in, let me know if you have any questions ‘bout anything, we got just about anything you can think of in here, just look a’round for a bit. You’re bound to find somethin’ here!” she said in a cheery, southern drawl.
“Thank you, I know I am sure to find something here.” Vlad responded, “I enjoy antiques far more than modern commodities.”
The woman giggled, “I agree, things just aren’t built to last like they used to be. Say, you’re not from ‘round here, what brings you here to Na’Orleans?” she asked with a smile.
He matched her with a small grin of his own and said, “Traveling, I’ve been to many other places but had yet to come here.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?” the woman asked slightly tilting her head.
“Yes, this has been quite fun,” Vlad said.
“Good! I’m glad, I’ll let you get back to lookin’ ‘round and I’ll get back to readin’ my paper,” the woman said, “apparently Annabelle the doll has escaped, and I wanna know more so I don’t run into her.”
Before Vlad could respond her head disappeared behind the paper as she resumed her reading. A doll named Annabelle? That escaped? Odd. Well, it didn’t concern him in his mind, he was too interested in the beautiful antiques surrounding him. Aisle after aisle he wondered around looking at all the old relics of the past. He reached the back of the store and he was looking through the shelf of old books when he felt that someone was watching him. He lifted his head towards the woman but she was too engrossed in her newspaper to be even paying attention to him. He looked around and his eyes landed on a Raggedy Ann doll perched on a shelf with other old toys. He locked eyes with the doll and immediately something felt off. Like the doll was actually staring back at him.
Nope. No thank you, he’ll just leave her be. He walked to another aisle and was looking at a china cabinet filled with jewelry and lighters. His eyes landed on a tarnished silver lighter in the shape of an alligator, and it must’ve been fate because he had yet to get a souvenir.
He walked back up to the counter, “Excuse me Miss, I think I would like to purchase that lighter over there, there’s a lock on the cabinet that it’s in,” he said with a smile and joy as anyone would get excited over a cool lighter.
The woman looked up from her paper before setting it down, “of course sweetheart! Come show me which one ya’ want,” she hopped off her stool and hobbled her way around the counter towards the cabinet. Vlad had to stifle a snort at how cute she was, she barely reached his chest and seemed to radiate a kind yet take no bullshit attitude.
Once she reached the cabinet she turned back to him and asked, “which one was it dear?” Vlad had followed her back to the cabinet and pointed at the lighter, “This one, I like lizards so I must have that lighter,” he said with a smile, internally buzzing like a kid in a candy store.
“Ah yes that one, great choice,” she spoke as she fished a small, old rusty key with a red tassel to unlock the china cabinet. As she was unlocking it and reaching to grab the lighter, the feeling of being watched came back over Vlad and something red appeared in the corner of his eye behind the old woman. He looked up and was met with none other than the doll from before. Or, more logically, it was probably a different doll. But, if there were two different dolls wouldn’t he have seen the other one? Not to mention, shouldn’t it be with the other doll? No, he’s just remembering things wrong. There are definitely two dolls that are just manufactured to unintentionally be very creepy.
Vlad was pulled from his thoughts by the woman pulling out the lighter and locking the cabinet again. She turned to him and asked looking up at him with a seemingly permanent smile, “would you like me to hold onto this at the counter while you continue to look ‘round or are ya ready to go?”
He looked back at the doll for a quick second more before looking back down at her with a soft smile of his own, “I think I’m just about done here, if I don’t go ahead and leave now for the other things I want to see I might never leave this store.” The woman laughed and responded, “I know the feelin’, it’s fun lookin’ at antiques, but let’s get you on your way.”
After checking out, he bid the woman farewell and continued walking. However, the light rain had turned into a fairly heavy downpour. Mentally cursing, Vlad trudged through the rain but still managed to enjoy his stroll, occasionally looking at his new alligator lighter with a grin. He spent the rest of the day looking at the old buildings, wandering through the various shops, and occasionally talking to people. As he continued, he vaguely felt like he was being followed. He brushed it off however because he never saw anyone and decided that he would just head back to the hotel he was staying at and if said follower decided to continue their idiotic pursuit, he would just deal with them later.
When he reached his room, he opened the door and was immediately met with the Raggedy Ann doll sitting in the chair in his room. What the hell is this? More importantly, how the hell is that thing in here? He did not want to deal with this. He just wanted to enjoy himself and this little shit has decided to be an inconvenience. Vlad sighed, shut the door and walked up to the chair.
“Listen here you little shit, if you think you can just waltz in here and try to be scary you have another thing coming. Now, please leave me alone,” he said before picking up the doll and setting it outside his door, locking it for good measure. He spent an hour messing with his new lighter, trying to get it to light again. All to no avail however, as he did not have anything to attempt to revive a dead lighter. Ah well, it can wait until he gets back home. Vlad then proceeded to spend the rest of the day reading comfortably and listening to the storm outside. Over the next few days and nights, he fully engrossed himself in New Orleans partying and tourism. During that time there were multiple occasions where he felt like he was being watched and followed, but when he investigated he found nothing, so he brushed it off. He also chalked it up to him being in an unfamiliar territory. All too soon it seemed, it was finally time for him to head back home. He double checked to make sure he had all his belongings, and then checked out of his hotel before leaving for the airport. On his way there, that same feeling of being watched and followed once again appeared. God give him patience because he is just about done with this shit. Fully ready to tell whatever it was to fuck off but it was obviously too cowardly to face him head on. Whatever, he’s going to be leaving this annoying feeling behind and arrive home safely.
During the flight however, there were multiple incidents of turbulence with no apparent cause. Great, he booked a shitty plane. He just wanted to get back home, he was done with all these inconveniences at this point. Thankfully, Vlad arrived home safely. He breathed a small sigh of relief, and decided he would take a small break from traveling. Thinking about what he wanted to do after he put all his things that he brought to travel with him, he unlocked the door, stepped in, and- fuck.
That blasted doll was perched facing the door, in his favorite chair, looking at him with that stupid smile on its face. Like it knew what it was doing, wanting his reaction like a bratty child. Alright, fine then. Since it wanted a reaction, it’s not getting one now.
He walked up to the chair looking down on the doll with his arms crossed like a disappointed father, “why are you in my house, not to mention, in my favorite chair like you own this place?” Vlad sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “you are not scary you are just really fucking annoying at this point, so I am going to ship you back to where you came from so you can scare some other people.” He lowered his hand and looked at the doll again, “and if you even attempt to come back, you’re going in an industrial wood chipper blessed with holy water.”
Vlad picked up the doll, packaged it neatly, before dropping it off at the post office. On the way home, he half-expected to find the doll in his home again, but to his joy, there was no doll to be found. He breathed a sigh of relief proceeded to fix the alligator lighter he bought. After about fifteen minutes of working, he flicked the lighter and to his amusement the flame flew from the mouth of the alligator. He smiled, set it aside, started a fire in the fireplace before grabbing a book and sitting in his favorite chair to enjoy a peaceful evening.
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Hope y’all enjoyed this stupid story that took me a few days to write bc I procrastinated a bit lol.
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