Deep within The Dream forest, are things that crawl and kill. One should never stray from the paves, and endure the sickness of the sweeping chill. This forest, was known for its name, but not because it was a dream, but a nightmare. A simple play on words, to fool all those who dare wander. For those who are easily rused, are the ones who suffer the most vile of deaths. But of course, this forest does have one asset that is not exactly vile.
For years now, Zarai Dubon had made himself at home in the Dream forest. It was an easy way to catch meals, as stray or lost campers/travelers would always get lured into this forest by its most inviting creature. The young vampire ventured outside of the forest sometimes, often into town to read in the library and socialize with the fellow hidden Vampires. But Zar often kept to himself. Alone, he felt that it was best, cosidering he didn't want to crush the fragile figure of a woman, nor the feeble mind of man.
Sitting silently in the bay of a tree, one of the tallest in all the lands, his gleaming black eyes watched the clouds and the stars, naming off the constelations, and far planets. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and his long black hair gently flowed with the air currents washing over him. His perfectly angular chin rose to the sky, staring lovingly at the face of the moon. His horns had gown two inches over the last years, but he was hardly proud of it. It seemed as if his demon side was beginning to show further, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. A soft smile played his lips. He wore no shirt, and was completely fine with it. The cold had no effect on him, seeing how he was colder. On his back was the tribal, celtic tattoo of his prophecy. He however, was proud of that. His muscular body was nothing to gaze at, his pecks and abbs were as normal as any human's. Covering his legs, were loose black jeans. He was barefoot too. Upon his lap, was a sketchpad. His fingers gracefully held the stick of charcoal, that so thoughtfully traced the lines of the horizon, and the bottom half of the moon. He was no Matise, but an artist none the less. He was a patron of the fine arts, as France had inspired him to go beyond books, and into the pastels of art. Just then, his sensitive eardrums picked up the crackling of leaves beneath him on the Dream forest's floor. His eyes dropped down from the moon, to the trees below. "A guest?" He asked himself. One eyebrow rose in curiocity. He did not move, nor ask, as he didn't exactly want to give away his position.