Dear diary, how come everybody wants to kill Dracula? I mean, the people whose villages I've

raced to the ground, whose family trees I've so thoroughly pruned.

Them, I understand. But how did my vulnerabilities become the topic of casual dinner table conversation.

I don't talk about the weaknesses of mortal men and Lord knows I could.

I may be biased, but it seems these days that haters are coming at me left right and

center trying to snuff my candle.

Well, fortunately Enough my candle.

Fortunately, my light is not so easily extinguished. S. The realm of on grave is sick and the diagnosis is Dracula.

This once fertile peninsula bears countless scars of its ruler's attempts to thwart death's design.

Shambling corpses shamble about derelict laboratories.

Packs of wearbeasts of all stripes roam the endless woods.

Some great bellowing presence howls through tunnels that weave beneath the land like

great grotesque arteries.

And at the northern cape, Count Dracula's castle towers over the land surrounded by impassable

ghoul-sprinkled marshes. Night fell over on grave years ago and has since

never relented. Feins of all shapes and sizes thrive never relented.

Feins of all shapes and sizes thrive in this eternal evening,

but so too does beauty.

The city of Lumano shines like a beacon in the heart of this land, and it has attracted artists, musicians, authors,

and poets like moths to a flame.

This bohemian enclave is the

a rich amber glow under which evil is repelled and a culture itself has been

...