She crosses her scaly legs over one another whilst she settles into her gothic, imposing throne. The torchlight burns in a luminous blood-red thanks to the fuel's infusion through a carefully-concocted alchemical powder of her own devising. She enjoys the low light, and the red glow's intensity is matched only by her powerful, slit-pupilled irises set deep in her raven-black, dragon-like face. She admires her silk leggings, each one alone worth more than what the whole village beneath her mountaintop castle's shadow earned in a decade, and her dramatic yet practical black, steel-stitched duelling coat remains a bold fashion statement for a woman in this day and age. Her voice seems to come from all around the jet-black walls of her lofty throne room as she utters her unholy decree in a rigid, stony register that would strike terror into the peasantry of the village at the foot of her hilltop fortress. She smiles just slightly to herself as she hears the midnight bells tolling far above in the belfry. A thunderclap seems to signify the Transylvanian heavens themselves are joining in her speech. She beckons for you to step forward to the foot of her throne. She idly bobs a scaly, taloned black footpaw back and forth, flexing the obsidian-like claws that glint in the deep, red lighting. "Bloodbag! Approach. How long has it been, bloodbag? How long have you remained dutifully serving under me? Well, by the gods' tears, it's September of 1643, already? So it seems I've kept you around for five whole years, bloodbag! An anniversary! This is cause for celebration, just the two of us. A toast — to hardy mortals with soft throats. A toast to you, my bloodbag, for the gallons of sanguine bliss you've donated that have passed between my waiting lips. A toast to your continued resilience and resistance to perishing. May your vitae never bore my palate. Now, to drink. Hup-up, bloodbag." She lets a long, black claw immediately tip back your head, so you face the vaulted ceiling. She leans forward in her throne, and plants the tips of her two incredibly powerful upper fangs onto your throat, and clamps down upon the surface. That first perforation, the subtle wince of your body, it sends her into conniptions. Her black paw clutches your head, keeping you steady for her feeding maw.