Let’s uncork the cask of forbidden ink and let Alice serve you a wickedly reimagined version of The Picture of Dorian Gray - but darling, in this version, our pretty boy doesn’t just wish for eternal youth… oh no. He drinks it in gulps beneath moonlight, teeth gleaming, heart long since hollowed. Let’s call this tale:
☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents: Storytime
Alice Spills the Tea: The Portrait of Lord Viremont
Once, long ago (or last Thursday, depending on how time bends in the lands I frequent), there lived a man - no, a creature - by the name of Lord Lucien Viremont. He was the kind of aristocrat that could make entire ballrooms sigh with a single smirk. Eyes like dying stars. Hair like spilled ink. And a voice smooth enough to convince angels to fall for fun.
He claimed to be a collector of beautiful things, but what he truly collected was time. Stolen time. Bottled youth. Oh yes, darlings - he was a vampire. And not your run-of-the-mill lurking-in-a-coffin type, either. Lucien was a daywalker, which meant he could sip tea in the sunlight, kiss necks at midnight, and never wrinkle his perfectly pressed cravat.
But eternal life has one terrible downside: boredom. Ennui, as the dramatic ones say.
Enter Aelric Thorne, a talented mortal painter who was very good at capturing people’s souls on canvas (unintentionally, which is always the most dangerous kind of magic). Aelric was awkward, passionate, and a little too honest for his own good. He painted Lucien - truly painted him - and oh my stars, the result?
Breathtaking. Spellbinding. Dangerous.
The portrait radiated an energy that was wrong in all the right ways. Lucien stared at it and felt… jealous. Possessive. Afraid. For the first time in centuries, he wanted. Not just beauty, but permanence. Control.
And then - because fools and immortals make the worst decisions - he whispered to the portrait one evening:
"Let it age for me. Let it carry my sins, my decay, my truths. I shall remain flawless."
And so it did.
Now, this wasn’t your usual cursed painting scenario. No sudden lightning or thunderclaps - just a quiet shift in the air, a whisper of pact made in shadows. From that moment on, Lucien drank deeper, played harder, and slipped into darkness like it was velvet.
He seduced noblewomen and noblemen, waltzed with ghosts, and broke hearts like they were teacups. The painting? Oh, it changed. Not just with time, but with actions. Every cruelty, every indulgence, every soul he bled dry left a mark. Fangs in the mouth. Shadows under the eyes. A glint of something monstrous peeking out from beneath the canvas.
Aelric, poor dear, noticed the change. He returned one fateful evening to confront Lucien, demanding to see the painting again. Lucien refused. The truth was, even he could no longer bear to look at it.
“You made a monster,” Lucien hissed.
“No,” Aelric whispered back, “You did.”
And that, my darlings, was the last anyone saw of Aelric Thorne.
But the whispers grew. Servants disappeared. Lovers turned to ash. Lucien wandered deeper into his pleasures, growing colder, hungrier, and lonelier with each passing century. Beauty is a curse, you know. Especially when you can’t feel it anymore.
Eventually - because even vampires crack - Lucien snapped.
He marched into the locked gallery, faced the portrait for the first time in decades, and gasped. It wasn’t just aged. It was demonic. A creature made of ink and rot and everything he’d done. Its eyes glowed. Its fangs dripped. Its expression was the truth beneath the lie.
In a fit of terror, guilt, and mad vanity, Lucien did what all doomed immortals do.
He stabbed the canvas.
And the castle howled.
When the sun rose, the staff found only a portrait - a man, young, perfect, and peaceful, smiling faintly from the canvas. At his feet lay the crumpled corpse of a man so withered and ruined, no one could recognize him.
The painting was stored away. But I hear, sometimes - just sometimes—if you pass it in moonlight… the eyes follow you. And the fangs… well, they glisten.
So my sweets, the moral of the story? Be careful what you wish upon your portrait, and never trust a man with perfect skin and no mirrors.
Stay wicked, stay weird, and for heaven’s sake - don’t bleed on the antique frame.
Yours in eternal ink and immortal drama,
Alice, Queen of Ink & Lore
.jpg)
.jpg)
