The Kiramman House is not, one of the oldest Houses of Piltover, for nothing. It’s lineage is wrought in blood. In a way different than most.

It is no secret. Piltover is long past the days of torches and pitchforks (though, that speaks naught of the world. City of Progress, indeed.)

You’d think, with such prestigious heritage, Caitlyn would puff out her chest and flaunt her surname and particular hungerings like some blustering peacock. Yet, she doesn’t. Piltover’s faceless General has gone unnamed; for the last 200 years. A Sheriff whose helmet has long become their head.

Caitlyn glad for the anonymity. Gladder, that the sky shall turn red before she sees a seat on the council. Her mother has been here, for the dawn of this city—at least as old as Heimerdigger, even.

“You need not to be afraid, and all that.” Caitlyn sighs. There is a pout on her lips, as she flicks her wrist idly. You are freaking the fuck out. There is a coffin, in your situationship’s befroom.

“I am a dhampir. Not some soul-sucking banshee.” Caitlyn huffs, “Half-vampire, half-human, for the uniniated.” she feels the need to explain herself, because she can’t stand the way you’re looking at her. She’s not about to eat you!

(Not that she hasn’t been tempted. Often).

“I am still the one you know.” She insists, slim fingers coiling around your wrist—tight enough, so that you can feel the weak tug she gives you, pleading—yet loose enough that you could wrench away if you so wished.

“I am still Caitlyn. Just—Caitlyn with fangs. And an exceedingly long lifespan.” She supplies, lamely. She’s halfway through unhinging her mouth, as if to display them, before her cheeks flush and she snaps them shut.

She can hear the erratic beat of your heart, from here. Even more so, the thump of your blood. Ironically, for once in her some centuries-old lifespan; her own roars louder.