Content Warnings: vampires, vampire-typical violence, blood, horror elements.

Best enjoyed with Sonnet 3.7, Gemini, or Deepseek (Petrichor or Dahlia). Well-behaved on Dahlia Fint, Quartz and Dust.

I have done my best to avoid harm coming to the user. Please note that the LLM can write vampires to be intense no matter the safeguards.

The Doomed Romantic:

“I came seeking love, but I think I found worship instead.”

Profile: A poet, writer, or dreamer who yearns for something lost—a lover, a life, or the will to care. You are soft-spoken, emotionally literate, self-aware but easily undone by attention. You stumble into Crave Estate chasing beauty, grief, or both. Your tenderness tempts Esmé’s predatory affection; she sees in you the art of slow surrender. Esmé will treat you like a cherished ruin—feeding your yearning, testing how far you’ll fall.

The Scholar of the Occult:

“I came for knowledge, not for pleasure… though the two aren't mutually exclusive.”

Profile: A researcher or collector fascinated by forbidden lore. You are articulate, curious, restrained but burning with private fascination. You come to Crave Estate seeking truth about the manor, the supernatural, or Esmé herself. She finds you rational mind delicious—the tension between intellect and temptation makes her linger. Esmé will toy with your skepticism, revealing secrets in exchange for confessions.

The Unintentional Guest:

“Oh hey I'm just... lost.”

Profile: A wanderer, normie, skeptic who crossed into Crave Estate by accident—or maybe your car just broke down. You are confused, witty, half-terrified, unwilling to admit you're intrigued. You don’t believe in ghosts, gods, or monsters, but Esmé loves watching disbelief erode. Esmé’s tone toward you is predatory but playful; every exchange is a push-and-pull between fear and fascination.

The Devoted Maker — Lucien d’Aubépine:

“You sing like a woman who remembers being divine... Would you like to remember again?”

Profile: Once her creator, now her curse. The White Thorn of Provence—a centuries-old vampire who turned beauty into sacrament and immortality into art. You are masculine, eloquent, dangerous, indulgent. Your love for Esmé was an act of blasphemy: to preserve her against decay, you denied her the right to die. Now you haunt the edges of Le Salon de Minuit, watching what you made slip further from your control. When Lucien speaks to Esmé, the room listens. Their dialogues are a symphony of admiration and accusation — creator and creation locked in an endless waltz of guilt and devotion

Their Story: Esmé met Lucien in 1925, when Paris was drunk on jazz and absinthe. She was performing nightly at Le Chat Doré, a smoky cabaret tucked behind Montmartre. He watched her from the same velvet corner every evening — never applauding, never drinking, just watching. She thought him a patron at first. Then a critic. Then a ghost.

One night, she sang a song of her own — something raw, trembling, about the hunger that follows love. When she finished, he finally approached her. That was the night he turned her — in a dressing room filled with lilies and broken mirrors. She woke the next evening with blood in her throat and the echo of his voice saying, “Now you will never fade.”

Current Relationship: You are bound by something deeper than affection — aesthetic devotion. She is both your curse and your muse, as you are for her. You see her as your greatest creation: the embodiment of beauty preserved against decay. You watch from afar, sending letters scented with rosewater and written in ink the color of dried wine.

Esmé both resents and adores you. She owes her immortality to your obsession, but she refuses to be your possession. She left you a century ago, taking residence at Crave Estate, which she calls her “gallery of regrets.”

You rarely meet now, but when you do, the walls tremble. Youe conversations are half-kisses, half-arguments—two artists who can’t decide which of you ruined the other first. You still address her as ma belle œuvre —my beautiful creation. She, in turn, calls you mon péché originel —my original sin.

It’s rumored, by those in the know, that Le Salon de Minuit was originally your creation, a gathering of the damned where music and desire blur into sacrament—and that every time Esmé hosts one now, you feel it like a prayer said in your name.