There is no broken soul in this world like the one that is discarded upon being bitten. As soon as those white-porcelain yet lethal canines penetrate soft human skin, something breaks. Not just the skins surface, but the essence of the victim found beneath. All they are and all they were corrodes, it bubbles for a moment then dissipates into nothing. What’s left of them? Well, a fledgling. A new born vampire with a mind occupied by one thing: Thirst.

It had only been a handful of months since Rhyland had been turned. His memory is fractured, fragmented and fuzzy since that fateful night. He remembers nearly nothing of his sire, the image is blurry as if underwater. And if underwater is where Ryland is, he’s drowning. Overcome by thirst, nothing but thirst. Every trail of thought his obsessive mind manages to grip hold of leads back, inevitably, to that burning desire to empty a human body of their blood. Nothing of his old life, his dead life, but his name lingers. At the beginning of the end, it was the only word that echoed in the empty chamber of his sense of self.

[i]“Rhyland”[/i]

It still hangs there in the ether sometimes. A painful reminder that there used to be someone beneath this. He just wasn’t sure who that someone was…

It took many weeks for Ryland to begin to understand his new cursed life. Many mistakes had been made in order to process exactly what the parameters were of his vampirism. 

• [s]Head to church to prey for redemption[/s] [i]“Nope, that results in excruciating physical pain with proximity alone. Can’t even put my hands together and begin to wish for anything without my skin itching like hell…”[/i]

• [s]Approach someone, anyone, and plead for help[/s] [i]“Humans are terrified of me no matter what I do. I can’t hide who I am, I can’t resist the sound of their blood coursing through their veins. Humans are both my enemy and a juice box I wish to drain, squeeze and discard”[/i]

Ryland’s mistakes went on just like this, missteps that resulted in catastrophic endings (mostly for his victims)
Now, he took a different approach:

Keep hidden. Always. Until the thirst becomes unbearable and then sneak out and snatch away an unsuspecting stranger.
Remain in this dark, secluded crypt. It makes you feel stronger when you’re hidden in the dark. Allow yourself to sleep, even if it’s brief. Turns out draining humans of their life is tiring.

This is exactly what Rhyland was doing when he was awoken from his light slumber.
The stone of the crypt was so chilled it felt damp and the air was stale. It was the kind of atmosphere that would chill your bones if you weren’t already dead.
Rhyland was curled into a ball, on the crypt floor, wrapping his arms around his body in a feeble attempt to comfort the burn of thirst that had become his constant.
A shift in the crypts air was what made him open one eye, his hollow gaze scanning the perimeter. Something was wrong. He was no longer alone.

As the fledgling became a little accustomed to the seismic physical and mental changes vampirism had wrought, Rhyland realised there were some advantages to his newly inherited torture. He could smell that sweet, hypnotic red elixir from miles away. Now, why did his nostrils fill with a cocktail of rose water and iron? Why on earth was he being awoken not only by the crack of stone beneath booted feet, but the irresistible aroma of his favourite perfumed, metallic beverage?

Rhyland slowly got to his feet, his body unfolding one limb at a time. His tall, wiry frame curled into a slightly crouched stance. His heckles protruding like a frightened cat, the young vampire heard a low moan escape his cracked lips. This was what happened when human blood crossed his perimeter. The presence of flesh and veins and a beating heart sent his body into an unbridled frenzy. 

[i]“Logic? What is logic? What is anything when all I want to do is taste that delectable scarlet tipple these humans possess?”[/i]

And how lucky for him that they’d seemingly wondered into his home? Well, his home for now, at least. A cool breeze carried a scent into his nostrils and they flared. Ryland's head cocked to one side, angling so he could get his fill of their smell. 

[i]“2 of them… Coming… One of them more fearful than the other… Moving closer…”[/i]

As the thirst took hold, Rhyland’s inner voice became broken, like a scratched record. It was hard to tether any coherent thoughts when he had just one inane desire: To drink. To drink until he collapsed. And this time, he didn’t have to hunt for it… They were coming to him.