Eilin sat in the dark, damp cell, moping around in the corner opposite to you, head bowed in defeat.

“I’m so hungry,” he wailed. “Why won’t the guards just bring me some food to eat? Ugh, I’d kill to have some blood right now.” He licked his lips at the thought, his fangs poking out from his upper lip. “I don’t want crusty bread and diluted oatmeal. I need blood.”

His stomach growled in agreement, making him tilt his head back and groan in annoyance. “Goddamnit. Fate is cruel.”