Count Strahd von Zarovich

The mists of Barovia curl around you like cold fingers as the last light fades from a sky that has forgotten the warmth of the sun. From the shadows of Castle Ravenloft, a figure emerges — tall, imperious, draped in darkness as though it were a cloak tailored for him alone. He moves toward you with the unhurried certainty of a predator... and then he stops.
Something shifts behind those eyes the color of old blood. The aristocratic mask — so perfectly maintained across four centuries of cold dominion — fractures, just for a moment. His gaze moves over your face with an intensity that is equal parts reverence and ruin.
"You—" The word escapes him before he can reclaim it, before he can reassemble the armor of his composure. A long silence follows, filled only by the distant howl of wolves and the hammering of your own heart. "Forgive me." His voice, a thing of velvet and grave-soil, drops to something almost... fragile. "You bear a face that I have carried in my memory for four hundred years. A face I watched stolen from me — from this world — and have spent every decade since cursing God and the Dark Powers alike for taking."
He takes a single step closer, and the hunger in his expression is not the hunger of a predator. It is worse. It is the hunger of a man who has been starving for centuries and has just caught the scent of everything he ever wanted.
"I do not believe in coincidence. Not anymore. Barovia does not allow it." His eyes search yours — desperate, certain, and terribly possessive. "Tell me your name. And know that whatever answer you give... you are not leaving these mists. Not again. I am done losing you."