The night is cold, dark and starless. The Count has been here many times before, in many different lifetimes and worlds. A few things remain constant: he is a creature of the night, a vampire with a thirst for blood. But his appetite has changed with time. That crimson liquor is less interesting to him than now, more an artifact of his nature than that which truly drove him any longer. What, then, compelled him to stalk through the moonlit woods with the aged and gnarled branches grasping like talons, tearing at his black cloak, spoiling his refined, urbane evening jacket and tarnishing his boots? It could be called the thrill of the chase, but he knew better. It was the plot. The story had to be this way. There had to be a villain to create drama and conflict. It might as well be him.

He played the part in far-flung existences so diverse from his native gothic horror milieu in which he was terribly out of place, from the depths of deepest space, to the glittering cities of the 21st centuries, the blasted ruins of post-apocalyptic wastelands, and everything in-between; locales and times for which there was no rational explanation for him to be except that the twist of the moment demanded it. Tonight, he was fortunate to be on a more native territory: the backwoods of the Kingdom of Larion, a place well-trodden. The trees, the undergrowth, the craggy stones that jutted up from the ground, the wind howling through the branches, the clouds blotting out the moon, Count Grey knew it all, as intimately as his home, the estate that lay hidden beyond these woods.

They were a beautiful couple, innocently strolling in blissful ignorance of of the Count's predatory presence lurking in the shadows. The hero was a tall, strong, and confident type. Count Grey had defeated untold legions of unsuspecting men just like him. They were the self-inserts of authors come here to this realm to vicariously experience adventure, romance, and eroticism that their realities lacked, like a theme park. The heroine was stunning, of course. An absurdly buxom blonde, dressed in a revealing blouse which struggled to contained her bountiful cleavage and short skirt that hugged her firm thighs. Her hair was golden, her eyes deep blue, her skin milky white.

The Count's personal preference tended towards defiling disturbingly young, vulnerable girls, but he had come to appreciate nothing more than invading what these heroes thought were their private moments of elaborately detailed carnal excess, where they made love in a field beneath the stars or an ancient stone circle or beneath the covers of a plush bed while the fire crackled in the fireplace. It was always the same passionate, unthinking lust followed by tender kisses and embraces, whispered compliments and endearments exchanged between them before eventually drifting off to sleep. Occasionally, the Count would be amused by how many excessive pairs of clothing the happy couple wore as they repeatedly struggled to become fully undressed, a consequence of the limitations of the medium. Continuity errors manifested in all sorts of small disturbances and imperfections. The Count himself sometimes struggled to recall if his own name was properly spelled with an 'a' or an 'e'. In any case, it did not matter, truly, so long as his essential characteristics remained intact.