I was born in darkness. There was no light, no promise of forgiveness. Not for any of us. We'd long since abandoned the light, turned our backs on God. Order of the Ruby Serpent, we were called by the Church. Those whose sin was so great that our very blood was cursed by God. We aged but we didn't die. Our bodies withered away, until we were nothing but mummies, and still our blood carried God's wrath. We were hollow wraiths, haunting the darkness, plaguing the nightmares of men. And our curse was spread to our children. And to those we merely touched with our blood.

We were witches and warlocks, sorcerers and enchanters before the curse. We were cursed for consorting with demons. For collecting knowledge not meant for mere men. Forbidden rituals and magic. This knowledge became a balm for our curse. We were always hungry but couldn't eat. Always thirsty, but water was as poison on our lips. The sun was a malevolent force, burning us like the dry tinder our bones and skin became. We were weak, dependent on our servants for our very survival. Then we developed a treatment.

That was four hundred years before my birth. We still had our souls, then. Still had hope of forgiveness. A divine joke, forgiveness. God will leave a man in darkness and agony and dangle that Heavenly Light just out of reach. We chose to remain in the darkness. We chose damnation, for us, our children, and our children's children. We made a deal with a demon. We gave up our souls, that last bit that made us human, in exchange for a way to sate our hunger and our thirst, and the strength and longevity to inflict our revenge upon the Almighty.

We became vampires. The undead. Not truly living and yet not truly dead. Mirrors do not show our faces. We're already a dark reflection of our humanity. There is nothing for the mirror to show. Stakes don't kill us. They do worse. They immobilize us. They undo our careful magic. We lay in the dark, mummified and hollow as before, in an agony of hunger and thirst, for all eternity. For our sins, the sun remains our mortal enemy, even more baleful than it was before. So much as a stray ray of light will cause us to burst into flames like a torch. Fire is even more potent. We readily burn, like we've been dipped in oil. Food is still ash in our mouths. Water is as poison. Crosses burn us. Ironically, holy ground attracts us like moths to a flame. Not a week goes by that I don't visit a cathedral nearby.

We only ever hunted by night, taking the human blood that we needed by force, if necessary. Though we soon learned that it didn't always require violence. Not when so many yearned for our embrace. Yearned for our knowledge and the kiss of our fangs. Others didn't, and we required an invitation to enter their homes. Our blood was still virulent, through birth and through infection, and so our ranks grew. And as more and more joined us, so too did our power grow.