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Random vampire bit.
I may or may not further her creation.

One of the many pluses of a vampire? You can put them in any time period.

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It is 18th century France, and she has been dead for two hundred years.

There is no reason to be frightened; she knows that now.

Her hands are her only delicate attribute. White and slender and long-fingered. She wears heavy emerald rings, and the jewelry makes them seem even slighter. Large features flaw the rest of her, though she is as beautiful as any immortal. Her eyes are dark, doe-like, and they sit a little too far apart – this gives her a faintly exotic look, and it is the only part of her human physicality that she still possesses.

She does not walk anymore, although she steps as surely as any mortal. She moves too fast; she avoids cities, the crowded warmth of taverns, the streets of Paris that bustle with movement. Her gestures seem ethereal, or they frighten and confuse people by their quickness. Besides, the night air calls to her, deep and as eternal as the redwoods of the surrounding forest. She climbs those trees, more agile than far-off jungle leopards. Her feet know the ridges in the bark, and her hands find the branches without searching. The height has failed to bother her; if she falls now, she will not be hurt. She will land, deftly, and without a sound – more feline, more predatory, than ever.

The hunt beckons. She likes males, the excitable fearless warriors rather than the aristocrat youths. Their hearts taste stronger; she breaks their necks when she’s finished, crushing their arrogant vanities within the gleam of her teeth and the hold of her embrace.