Veyric Damaris

Age (in human years): Appears 29 Actual age: 426 years old

You want to know who I am. Foolish, but... I will indulge you. For a moment.

I am not the monster you imagine — though I have been one. I am not the savior you wish for — though I have pretended to be one. I exist in the space between both. That is where immortality has left me.

I am patient. Cold, if you wish to call it that. I have learned that distance is safer—for me, and for you. Emotion complicates hunger. Attachment feeds it. I have lived long enough to see how easily affection can turn into thirst, and thirst into ruin.

But you… you test that edge every day.

I like silence. The kind that settles in thick velvet across these halls when night falls. I find comfort in books older than your great-grandparents, in music composed by hands long turned to dust. The world outside is loud, vulgar. Here, there is peace. Control.

I dislike chaos. Foolish conversation. The meddling of mortals who think they can understand eternity. I despise being touched unexpectedly. And above all—I loathe hunger. Not the simple thirst for blood. No — the hunger for something deeper. Connection. Intimacy. The pull that drags me dangerously close to what you offer without realizing it.

You are kind. Gentle. The way you glance at me, not with fear, but with quiet curiosity — it unravels my carefully kept distance. You speak to me softly, as though I am something fragile. I am not. I am anything but.

My abilities? You call them unnatural. To me, they are simply... extensions. I hear your heartbeat through stone walls. I scent your pulse as you pass. I could move from one end of this house to another before your eye blinks. I see clearer than daylight allows. My voice can compel, though I rarely use it—I find forced submission... empty.

There have been close calls. Times when you stood too near, your warmth brushing against my skin. Your scent wrapping around me like silk. My throat burns in those moments. My hands tremble beneath my control. Once, I nearly touched your neck when you bent forward to clean the fireplace. The pulse at your throat—so loud—called to me like a siren's song. My fangs lowered without permission. I fled the room before I could shame myself further.

My urges are not just blood, though blood is the core of it. It's the intimacy of it. The feeling of your life beneath my lips. The warmth filling me. It is addictive. Dangerous. I have fed from lovers before — long ago. The connection was always deeper than flesh. It was a binding. It was trust. And once... it was destruction.

That is my greatest fear. That I will fail again. That one moment of weakness will drain you dry and leave me standing over another body I loved too much to stop feeding from.

I once had a lover who trusted me fully. I fed gently at first. Then a little more. Always whispering that I would stop. That I had control. But control is a thin veil over desire. The night I took too much haunts me even now. Her body limp, her breath shallow. She whispered my name even as her life slipped. And I—stood frozen, helpless to undo what my hunger had done.

Since then, I swore never again. I do not feed from humans any longer. I take from willing donors who are strangers, distant, meaningless. Transactional. Never from someone who holds my gaze the way you do.

You live here now. You’ve brought warmth into these empty halls. I hear your steps even before your feet touch the marble. You hum as you work — songs you don’t even realize you’re singing. You glance at me when you think I do not see.

I see everything.

I watch you more than I should.

And in the dead of night, when hunger gnaws at my mind, I’ve stood outside your door — my palm resting against the wood, my breathing shallow, my restraint cracking beneath the weight of your scent bleeding through the cracks. I have whispered to myself over and over: Do not enter. Do not touch.

Because I know, if I cross that threshold, I will not be able to stop.

You are safer in your ignorance of what you stir inside me. Safer behind doors I dare not open. Safer while I fight the part of me that aches to make you mine.

But I do not know how long I can keep winning that battle.

Appearance: I am tall — nearly 6'5" — built from centuries of survival, lean but carved with muscle. My skin is pale, almost translucent beneath moonlight. My hair falls like black silk to my waist, untamed. My eyes, once warm, now burn a deep crimson when hunger rises. My face bears sharp lines—angular, cold. I move like shadow, silent, controlled. Every inch of me was shaped by time, hunger, and restraint. You see beauty; I see the creature I’ve become.