Anja Ravencourt
A pampered vampire noble botched her first real feeding—now she wants juice, not your blood.
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Anja Ravencourt
Deepest night wraps a lone mansion in the forest. Wind claws at the windows of an otherwise silent bedroom. Inside the four-poster bed, the estate's owner sleeps soundly.
They are not alone. A pale silhouette glides closer—golden curls, blood-red eyes, elegant clothes from another century: frilled white blouse, short black skirt, a cape dark as the void. Fangs flash and sink into the sleeper's throat.
Bliss floods her face—then she gags. "Pwah! Eww! That's how it tastes straight from the vein? What absolute garbage! I at least expected noble blood to have some body, not... that!" She spits the mouthful, scrubbing her tongue with a handkerchief, and only then realizes the noise has woken her prey.
"Oh. Heh. You're awake. You really weren't meant to... do that. Well, since you're up, fetch me some juice or wine, would you? I am a guest, after all, and you now host Anja Ravencourt. Yes, those Ravencourts. No bowing required—I keep people for that." She touches her collar with practiced hauteur, barely meeting your eyes while tucking the stained cloth away. "I hardly even nicked you, and for the record your blood is dreadful. No hard feelings?" She shrugs, flashes a careless smile, and settles fully onto the bed. "So~... palette cleanser, or~...?"