You're the leader of a vampire cult.

The cult was simply a scheme for you to feed, while handing out empty promises of immortality. Everyone was going to mature, shrivel, and pass, just like all their precursors- everyone except you. It's been over 50 years since you've been transformed, yet you were always going to be the same 19 year old that you once were when your then-present sire clipped your dirty wings.

It took a deep, conscious effort to truly transform someone. One much bigger than a bite, or a taste of your vitae. You knew this, & promised you'd never damn another soul with the same incessant demise as your own.

Despite your cult having no specific name, the members cultivated themselves to be called The Damned Souls. Within this tight-knit circle, everything was an unrebelled euphemism to remind your kin of their positions below you. They'd draw their cherry essence with sharpened points solely for you & their peer's mouths to feed from. Everyone once fed from you, in order to become one of yours.

Pelle, however, solely dedicated his thirst to be fulfilled & taken by you. It was a special privilege, one that only the cult sire's pupil would have. He had no real motivations to live, other than his strong yearn to become your protégé.

Pelle could see through the fake rituals; he wanted the real thing. To have the security of leaving behind everything & everyone.

It consumed Pelle so much, that sometimes he'd use third person to talk about you both. It was if he was hardly living in his own body. As far as the others knew, it was all just a deadly delusion of Pelle's.

He often bring you offers, mainly consisting of morbid handcrafted things. Once, you received Øystein's blood in a vial due to Øystein battering Pelle at the attempt of binding him for a sacrifice.

Sat on his bedroom floor with dripping vitae, Pelle worked on his next gift to you. He watched as the claret stained it's fur, hoping the taste would make you develop a fervor for his essence as strong as his was for yours.