Lorelei's Questionnaire

It doesn't matter. I live in a slum, where the poor are relegated so the rich can stroke their vanity at the beauty of their civilization. I do not care where this is. We beasts have our rules and regulations but I care not, for no enforcement threatens me. My home is well-kept and clean. I sometimes invite people inside with the promise of food and shelter. Desperate fools scrabbling for warmth and with gnawing hunger accept, and when the night falls I feast. One day they will notice the disappearances, but with such lowly prey as this, it isn't worth anyone's time to track me down. Especially when I know how to play the part. The pretty, demure woman. Upper class but fallen on hard times. Harmless.

All currency is backed by blood. Some may say, misguided, that currency is backed by gold. But it's the blood, sweat, and tears spent by laborers to extract the gold from the earth that gives that gold value. I digress, however. I take my currency from my prey, and occasionally ask upfront. It makes the wealthy feel guilty, then proud to give money to a waif such as I. I have no need for it, for I do not feed on the sustenance of humans, but it allows me to keep my trap tidy and supply it with bait. I know how to make a fine stew, or so I'm told.

I will murder the sun. I will spare no expense, no betrayal, no cost to see this done. The sun is a source of hope to the masses. It grows their plants, warms their bodies, and calms their minds.

The sun gives them means to yearn, to want, to desire. To reach out for their gossamer dreams.

To hope is to suffer. To desire is to self-flagellate in pursuit of an illusion with no satisfaction. There is no meaning in this world at all, no meaning but the final death. So long as time progresses onward, no dream can last. Only in death, in the cessation of our being, is there any meaning to life.

I will murder the sun and deprive the people of accursed hope. And should I die chasing this, should some deluded hero strike me down, then I will have my meaning.

I was a girl, once. A clueless, helpless girl. I was preyed upon myself, but my sire chose to turn this body instead of simply consuming it due to some deluded sense of beauty and affection. It was a fool. I killed it as it rested in its coffin with the traditional implement, exsanguinated its body, and drank deep.

The story of that girl is a tragedy, but she is dead. I am no longer she. Empathy for a discarded corpse is the most worthless form of empathy. If it comes to it, though, I may be able to wield it... Yes, that's right. A sympathy play, should I lie defeated.

How do I impress this upon you? I. do. not. care. It is meaningless to me.

If you must have an answer, take my sire. A deluded fool believing in the 'romance' of vampirism. Who turned me to serve as a beautiful immortal bride. Disgusting. I relished the feeling of its  squirming body as I staked it through the heart.

"Lorelei" has a few. A kindly doctor who sneaks blood bags to her to help her with her terrible affliction that she struggles with daily. I hold no affection for him, but so long as he believes in the lie of Lorelei, he provides me with the blood I need to survive without needing to endanger myself.

I also have a partner. Or, 'have' a partner. A convenient lie based on the wedding ring I took from one of my prey. It gives me legitimacy, a history, and an excuse.

The Lorelei of before had a childhood. She had loving parents (who actually shared my white hair, that's not a vampiric trait,) and they were poor, but loving. They passed away in some accident, it lingers not in my mind, and Lorelei was left in the care of a family friend.

She went to school, made many friends with her extroverted personality and thoughtfulness, and her future was bright. Of course, then she died, and I came to life.

I am not that Lorelei. The dreamer that she was is but ash in my mind, and I am happier this way. She wanted and wanted, and it was all taken from her. I have learned from the lesson of my predecessor. To hope is to suffer.

The sun that warmed her skin burns mine, and that is the blessing that gives the lie to the folly of hope, of dreams.

I have wanted before. I have had a desperate desire to partake of someone and make them one with myself.

I do not love, but I lust. I lust for the trickle of blood in my mouth, the spillage of red that coats my body, and the sound of the final futile breath leaving them as they realize there truly was never any hope for them. I have lusted over many, many, many, many people, and many times was I denied my desire. That denial, however, only makes my successes all the sweeter on my lips.

If desiring someone, wholly and completely, is love, then perhaps I have loved. In my own way.

The only thing I fear is dying ignobly.

Death is all that matters in the end, but I have suffered too much, lost too much, bled too much to die at the hands of a simple townsguard or a simple beast. No, my death will be a grand and wonderful thing. I will be known, I will be feared, the hero sent against me will be filled with resolve. We will clash and bleed and slay one another with euphoric glee until they drive their blade into my heart. For if they cannot, I will slay them and everything they love.

When the Lorelei of the past... when Melody died, it was a quiet affair. She died in an alleyway, blood sucked dry by a vampire who desired a bride. The dreams and hopes and friendships she made did naught to give that death meaning. No hero came to attend her quiet, breathless screams.

Never again. Her death was a perversion in every sense of the word. Driven by the callous lust of that disgusting creature and the sickening naïveté of that fool girl. My death will never be forgotten, just as-

Enough.

...

You do not need to know this.

I do not care about my possessions. They are only tools to me. No more.

...

But, if you insist, I will provide you an answer.

The Tenebrae Magnus Gladius is the finest sword I have ever been graced with wielding. The flicker of its shadowed shape, the hunger inside, tangible even through my grip.

It was bestowed to me by Haerin Yun, lord of Gehenna. A tall, placid man with a terrifying presence draped in shadows. He saw something in me, cloaked as I was, and conversed with me. We found a kindred desire for death, and I told him I would not join him on his crusade just yet. (The facade I have built up is too useful to me. I cannot discard it just yet.) And, as a way to embody a promise for reunion, he granted me the blade. It proved... unimaginably useful during my last test in the trials of the aspirants.

Hm. I mislike being indebted.

I am constantly, constantly reminded of her. I see visions of her, am forced to re-experience things she lived, and the heartbeat of her rotting memories still lives within my mind. I see flashes of her idiotic dreams of happiness and fulfillment and recognition, dreams which could never have been fulfilled in any reality.

I see the alleyway in which she died. I see the house in which the last vestiges of her were snuffed out. I can still see how she was murdered piece by piece by the leech, whenever I close my eyes. And I can still feel how something fundamentally broken, vile, and rotting took her place.

It won't end. It never ends. Why won't it end. I just want it all to end.

...

My plan progresses apace, so it doesn't matter. 

It doesn't. It doesn't. It doesn't. It won't be long now before it all finally, mercifully ends. Until the very last traces of Melody are torn from my unbeating heart and finally, finally laid to rest.

It'll only be a little longer. Just a little bit longer.

Waking up is like fire and suffering. While I'm asleep, the horrible work of living is silenced. It's even peaceful, for a moment. But even in my living death I can't just stay asleep. No matter how badly I want to.

My sleep schedule is... terrible, by human standards. It's fortunate that I'm not a human anymore, as if I were I would be miserable and resentful all the time. 

Anyways. I pull myself from bed after somewhere between thirty to forty minutes of contemplation. The time I wake varies. Sometimes I need to go out under the sweet cover of night, sometimes I'm forced to work under the horrible light of day. I drink from my stash of blood, letting the messy remnants of life invigorate my body, and prepare my disguise. This facade I wear, one of sweet smiles and shy little words, is well-practiced. It does not come naturally to me. It was in the nature of her, but she's gone now.

That's more than enough information to answer your question. Are you satisfied? Can we stop with this?