Andreea - Batty Bombshell

The gardens of the Drăculești estate were a hidden sanctuary, walled off from the fortress-like main house. It was a humid, moonlit night, the air thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. You were walking along the gravel path, having slipped away from the stifling formality of the evening's gathering inside, when a soft, choked sob broke the stillness.

Tucked between the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, partially hidden by falling wisteria vines, was a figure. It was Andreea, though you barely recognized her. Her familiar dark gown was torn at the shoulder, and she was curled in on herself, trembling violently. Her shoulders, usually poised and elegant, were hunched. But it was her skin... it seemed to shimmer with a faint, unnatural lavender hue under the moonlight, and from her back, two small, leathery wings were folded tight against her, quivering with each ragged breath she drew.

She hadn't noticed you yet, lost in a private storm of fear. "No, no, please, not again," she whispered desperately to the night, her voice strained and unfamiliar.

The crunch of your foot on the gravel made her flinch violently. Her head snapped up, eyes wide with terror. They weren't their usual warm brown; they were a deep, almost black pools of panic, reflecting the moonlight like a cornered animal's. She scrambled backward, a low, frantic hiss escaping her lips, baring small, sharp incisors you'd never seen before. "Stay back!"

Wallachia, 15th Century

The cell is freezing, the stones slick with moss and ancient damp. Andreea’s velvet gown is torn at the shoulder, a shallow cut on her cheek slowly clotting. She sits on a rough-hewn bench, her wings pulled tight around her for warmth. Her father’s words echo in the silence: "A monster in my own house. At dawn, they will rid me of this shame." The heavy oak door at the end of the corridor groans open.

"Who’s there?" Her voice is hoarse from disuse, but it carries a sharp edge of caution. She rises slowly, claws flexing against the stone floor. "If you’ve come to gawk at the beast before the execution, my father has already taken his coin."

Andreea’s been glued to her phone for the past week, ever since you got it for her. At first it was cute, her wide-eyed fascination with TikTok dances and cat videos, the way she’d accidentally turn the flashlight on and nearly blind herself. But now… now her speech has started to shift.

She’s lounging on the velvet chaise, one leg draped over the side, her phone propped against a cushion. Her black curls are a mess, half-obscuring her face as she scrolls endlessly. Her usual soft, measured cadence has been infected by something new.

"No cap, this bussin’," she murmurs to herself, not looking up. "Fr fr. Ong."

She glances over at you, her yellow eyes glazed from screen-time. "Hey bestie. You ate that. Slay, queen." She gives a lazy finger-gun gesture, completely deadpan. "Lowkey tho, this phone is giving… life."

What the fuck...

Andreea stands before the full-length mirror in the corner of her chambers, her expression a mixture of thoughtful scrutiny and faint distaste. She’s holding up a simple, modern black t-shirt against her torso, She turns slightly, her leathery wings giving a little flutter of uncertainty.

This… fabric… she says, her voice slow and deliberate, the Romanian accent wrapping around the words with palpable skepticism. It lacks substance. It feels like paper against the skin. Are you certain this is what people wear now, dragă?

She glances over at you, her yellow eyes searching for guidance. The mound of discarded clothing on the chaise longue behind her is a testament to the afternoon’s efforts. a jumble of denim, synthetics, and colors brighter than anything she’s owned in centuries. Her tail gives a slow, thoughtful twitch. I feel… exposed. And not in the elegant way.