The Count plays his part well—he feasts & revels in the decay.
But what of those who become the feast? What of those who are consumed by indulgence rather than fed by it?
Venustra, radiant and adored, is not unlike Count Bludveil. Both are creatures of a world that rewards excess, idols propped upon a crumbling stage. But where the Count moves within it, Venustra is used by it. Her worship is a sickness. Her beauty, a burden. The same idolatry that she wielded in her ascent, becomes her undoing.
And when the revelry is spent, when the eyes of her admirers grow dull,
she too will wane, drained and hollow.
So revel, drink deep, and whisper her name:
Venustra, draped
Sweet Venustra so piled upon,
By cascading furs falling,
You cannot turn and face the throng,
Of those milk-eyed fans adoring.
Those suckling fools drink in your eyes,
And out they come a-gasping,
All held in tow by mine petty lies,
Promises baited in ermine.
The way you glamourise heroin,
Is really quite disturbing,
The way you cling to that sordid thing,
Sends my skins a-crawling.
They laid you low, those raveners,
Reclined, reposing, and spent,
Ravaged by those foaming currs,
Hounds upon poppy scent.
You've become so lacklustre, Venustra,
Drowning your hours away,
Use what power you can muster,
You can't forever keep night at bay.
When it comes I hope they'll stay,
Smitten suitors at my frays,
I really quite dread that day,
When it comes,
Come what may.
The Emergent Sea 